Enterprise: 2154
by jtm1848
Summary: An adaptation of the fourth-season Vulcan trilogy. Last portion of chapters now up.
1. Prologue

**—****PROLOGUE****—**

Ye who read are still among the living, but who write shall have long since gone my way into the land of the shadows.

What compelled me to enter the Fire Plains of _Raal_, I shall forever wonder. At the time, it seemed to be the imminently logical thing to do; my reason guided me forward, and I quashed the wavering instincts that drew me back. Trepidation and admonition filled my mind, but I ignored the fervid warnings that swept my soul and plagued my mind with lustrous images of death and decay.

The Fire Plains—the forsaken heart of Vulcana Regar, formed by a rough triangle bordered by the great pits of T'raan, T'riall, and Tregar. Beneath the burning skies, the Plains are a montage of jagged rocks and spires, many sharp enough to slit even the toughest cloth, brutal in the simple hues of red and orange. Great craters and rippled ravines, up thrust pillars and delirium-inducing cliffs, thy name is the Fire Plains.

In this wretched wasteland, not a single hint of life stirs. No animals, no insects, not even the wind to ease the fervid stench of sulfur and brimstone; the plains remain hot and still, brightly lit in places and cloaked with absolute blackness in others. Nevasa glows hot in the open areas; _e'shua_ are said to dwell in the dimmed nether regions of this, the Gateway of _Helusion_.

Here and there, standing tall and proud beneath the flaming heavens, ancient stone statues stand watch over the Fire Plains. The height of several men, built by hands that predate the first awakening, they stand solemn in their duties, guarding the rock wilderness against those who would dare desecrate it.

They tell me that ancient Earth language contains the word _sophomore_—"wise fool." And as a logical fool, I dared enter the Fire Plains, challenging it to do the worst as I descended into the shadows.

From the Gateway, the scarcely-worn path descended quickly, curving and jutting its way to the upper floor of the Plains. The rock, the _kastik-kov_ on either side of me, grew dark as the burning sunlight disappeared from overhead, and my eyes shifted rapidly to adapt to the anemic, despondent glow that prevailed on the roof of the world below.

The atmosphere was heavy, far heavier than anything I had felt before. It weighed down on me with suffocating effect, imparting an impalpable sense of boding upon me as it hung, stank, in the dark crevasses and shadowed pathways that threaded the lava-lined floor. I knew it was illogical—nay, it was completely irrational—but I couldn't banish from my mind the memory of Evil long gone, the remnants of once-heard fairy tales from the days when Vulcans were still foolish enough to believe in such childish things.

I saw a shadow before me, a wickedly-curved movement of black against the lava wall, and I forced myself to think meditative thoughts; for the shadow I saw was impossibility, something that should not exist—and as a mere shadow, technically did not. I had to consciously fight the unsettling feel of doom that fell upon me, chilling me with its coldness. As the shadow approached closer, I backed myself against a wall, hoping to disappear in the alcove.

For the shadow I saw should not be, and was not. Basic science can understand light and shadow; but how can a shadow exist in the absence of light? How can a shadow exist in the absence of some physical form to create it? A shadow does not exist in and of itself, yet this singular entity approached me like a malevolent being, its form constantly shifting in myriad ways that confused the mind and terrified the soul.

Oh, my inappropriate jocularity when the shadow passed! I told myself that it was only an illusion, the creation of a mind affected by the gases welling up from the world beneath my feet. _It never happened_, I told myself. Besides, I was safe! It had not harmed me, and I was never in any danger!

At the end of the path, where the ancient texts had promised, I found the doorway leading within. I made my way downward, through the lava tunnels guiding me to the heart of _Helusion._

The way was lit. Torches were spaced every several paces, fastened into the lava walls. They were left there by the _Kul'Cha'Vir_: the "Brothers of Fire," a set of recluses who themselves predated the time of Surak. It was said that these tunnels contained the reliquaries of their dead; the torches led the penitent to their tombs.

Around me, the flames fought a dying battle to illuminate the tunnels. Straining upwards in tall, slender lines of light, each one cast a scarce glow about it, causing the ebony lava to glow with faint luster. The flames remained pallid and motionless; in the reflection, I believed that I could see the pallor of my own countenance.

How long I wandered, I do not know. Vulcans are renowned for the ability to mentally track time; but in these ominous hollows, I found my control slipping. It took my strength merely to hold down the growing sense of apprehension that fought my reason, and the thickened, oppressive air seemed to surround me, clogging my senses and suffocating my mind.

I passed tunnel after tunnel, nothing but black holes in the wall, and I paused to explore several of them. It was now that I pulled out my artificial light; its activation cast weak illumination in a bubble around me, barely making its way to the heavy walls that were beneath me, above me, and beside me. It gave me scarcely a hint of what was to come; the anemic effect disappeared quickly before me.

From time to time, at various junctions, inscribings were visible in the rock. They uniformly belonged to a time many centuries past, although some of the writings were far newer; the descendants of the _Kul'Cha'Vir_ still roamed these recesses, leaving behind their signposts to guide the way.

From my studies, I recognized some of the symbols; the sign of the _sirshos'im_ dominated, although _Tevanu _appeared quite often as well. Many were nearly invisible, obscured by the passage of eons, and others had consciously been erased and scratched out.

In this land beneath the world, I sought one symbol in particular, one which would guide my path. I desired to find it as soon as possible; it may have been improper of me, but the constant sense of foreboding wore heavily upon my being, and it was with great relief when I saw the misplaced symbol of the _pach-te_.

I turned to follow the jutting passageway, holding my light out before me. Quickly, within paces, it narrowed; I had to duck my head, then turn my body to the side as I slid between the rock walls. I lost my robes, as they caught on the edges, and I left them behind. The tunnel turned sharply, and already I could not see the main trunk; a part of me wondered how I would get back out.

It was an arduous passage, but I eventually emerged, my body scored with a hundred scratches bleeding trickles of green. It was a relief, a wholly irrational relief; I could breath clearly again, without the weight of stone pressing me tight, and I stopped in the cavern to suck in a deep breath of gas-laced air. I choked, my head swam, but I clung to consciousness.

My head gradually cleared as my body adapted, and I held the light above me as I surveyed the pocket in the rock. It was simple, unadorned, precisely as I would expect; it gave no hint of the treasure located within.

There, in the center of the room, was a simple stone altar. The lava had worn away to reveal the soft sandstone below, and in this base was erected a solitary rock. With great care, I lifted it away, and reached into the opening beneath.

My hands found something firm, and I pulled it out. It was covered with sand, and I brushed it off carefully, revealing the ancient script upon it:

It said _"Surak."_


	2. Chapter 1

** - WUHKUH -  
><strong>

"Follow that will and that way which experience confirms to be your own."

-The Hidden _Kir'Shara _of Surak

...

**The Month of Khuti**

Chief Administrator V'Las, the high commander of the Vulcan race and leader of the Vulcan High Command, shared his people's disdain for that which is aesthetically pleasing. _Aesthetics, _after all, served to provoke _emotional _edification, and emotions were unwanted, something to be rejected and suppressed.

_It is just as well, _he supposed, _that it is night._ Due to some long-forgotten, age-old conceit, the Administrator's office had a _view_; something that the wildly-emotional, infantile humans were said to be fond of. From his office, V'Las could see across the rooftops of the sprawling capital city of Shi'Kahr. Thousands of twinkling lights skittered across the cityscape, illuminating buildings and parks, boulevards and paths. If he looked closely, he could no doubt see the tiny figures of his people, going about their business in the cooler air of the night.

Beyond the limits of the city, he could see the edge of the great desert, which encompassed nearly the whole of the globe. Due to the powerful magnetic currents and resulting stellar wind of its sun, the Vulcan planet was a fire-blasted kiln, possessing only a handful of inland seas and buried waterways. It was in the desert that the Vulcan soul had been forged, heated and sculpted until the unnecessary accoutrements were burned away; the hardened core, built only upon logic, emerged prevalent.

The desert was not truly dark, of course. True darkness cloaked Vulcan's skies only rarely over the course of a year; 40 Eridani A's stellar wind generated an astrosphere far larger than the star itself, larger than the moon in Earth's sky. And the glow was compounded by the reflection of T'Rukh, which filled nearly a sixth of the heavens above Vulcan. Together, they gave the desert an ethereal glow.

V'Las' chronometer beeped the hour, causing the administrator to mentally chastise himself. A properly-disciplined mind can track time as accurately as any artificial timekeeper; but his inner count had slipped. He was fully two seconds off; something had disturbed his mental control. _It is of no immediate consequence, _he decided. He had other concerns to attend to.

His scheduled guest arrived promptly as the chronometer fell silent. V'Las knew from lengthy experience that Talok's discipline was something less than V'Las' own; such promptness—a Vulcan custom—likely meant that Talok had arrived silently early, and timed his entrance with precision.

"What is our status?" V'Las demanded as soon as the doors hissed shut. He would never admit to his impatience, but it was impatience that he was experiencing; plans were made and actions undertaken which required great accuracy and detailed work. He had waited all day as this meeting was scheduled, then postponed.

Talok fell into a neutral posture. He heard the emotional tinge in the administrator's voice, but discarded it almost unconsciously. "All units are in place, Excellency," he reported flatly. "We are ready to execute on your command."

...

At the sound of the knock, T'Les set her book down on the side table. There was no need to mark the page; her memory was more than sufficient to recall her place in _The Didacts of Sopen_, a Vulcan philosopher of some note from nearly fifteen hundred years earlier. But the old, leather-bound volume had to be handled with care; few authentic copies of the text survived.

The knock came again as T'Les calmly rose from her chair. The sound was enough to communicate the intention; it was not the hard, commanding resonance of the Security Directorate. Instead, it was muted, soft, as though it wished to be surreptitious; logically, it must be a friend. Perhaps even a fellow traveler.

Vulcan homes are simple, nothing more than a handful of rooms laid out in airy manner, and T'Les crossed to the door before the newcomer could knock again. She glanced through the peephole—an anachronism from earlier times; satisfied, she drew back the bolt and opened the door.

A young male stood on the threshold, fidgeting slightly. He was clearly uncomfortable to be making this visit; even though T'Les was his mother-in-law, the two did not completely agree on matters of logic…and his father was an influential member of the Vulcan High Command.

"Welcome to my home," T'Les said, tilting her head in ritual acknowledgement. "Please enter." As she spoke, her eyes glanced outside, peering in the twilight for any hint of Security personnel.

"It is my privilege," Koss replied as he tilted his head in return. He followed her outstretched arm into the home, and let the door close behind him.

"Can I get you a glass of water?" T'Les offered, completing the greeting. Her attention was refocused on her guest.

"No, my visit will remain brief."

The aptly-named sitting room was as austere as Vulcan itself; a couple low couches, built of well-worn planks, were placed along either side of a solitary table. T'Les gestured to one, inviting Koss to take a seat; moving with practiced grace, she took the other. "And what is the purpose of your visit?" she inquired.

"I wish to ask of your daughter's arrival," Koss answered. T'Les' daughter was his wife—the famous T'Pol of Vulcan, who had defied the High Command and enrolled in Starfleet. In the politics of Vulcan, their marriage was paradoxically a benefit to Koss' family; despite T'Pol's outcast status, the two had been betrothed as youths, and the honoring of that agreement was more important in the eyes of their people.

"My daughter is still fulfilling her tasks on board the _Enterprise,_" T'Les answered. The Earth starship was currently in orbit of Vulcan, and had been so for several days. "She has agreed to come when her duties allow."

"I would expect no less," Koss replied. T'Pol's rejection of the High Command was the only 'un-Vulcan' thing about her. "If I may make a request…"

"I will notify you upon her arrival," T'Les agreed. "However, I believe I have supplied no new information to you…is there another reason for your visit?"

Koss hesitated, and then leaned forward. "My father has been…hearing rumors," he said. His voice was lowered into a whisper. "He has done his best to protect you, but he believes it is logical for you to take added precautions."

"I have done nothing to draw added attention from the Security Directorate, and relying on rumors is often illogical," T'Les answered. She, too, leaned in to cloak their conversation further.

Koss submerged the need to fidget. "He has seen information which indicates that Chief Administrator V'Las is preparing to take a more aggressive stance against the heretical sects."

"I understand." T'Les allowed the slur to pass by. She altered her gaze as she processed the information. Logically, she knew that the day would come; she had refused to back down, and was on a collision course with the High Command. It was logical to have an escape route prepared.

T'Les stood up slowly, motioning for Koss to stay in his seat. He watched cautiously as she disappeared from the sitting room, and his sensitive, pointed ears heard the click of a latch being released. There was a jingle, followed by the soft thud of a lid being closed. T'Les' footfalls were nearly silent as she returned; she stepped softly on the warm stone floors of the villa with graceful, economical movements that told of great physical harmony.

Following the subtle cues, Koss stood up and held out a hand. Into it, T'Les placed a piece of jewelry. "If I am unable to meet with my daughter," T'Les said firmly, "I ask that you deliver this to her. But it is important that you tell no one."

...

Amid the towering spires and sweeping arcs that made the skyline of Shi'Kahr were a number of lower buildings, nestled between with the graceful splendor of planned design to create a single, harmonious city, bustling with activity but never rushed, filled with beings but never crowded. It was a monument to the Vulcan way of life; laid out according to pure logic, each individual portion merged seamlessly into the next, maximizing efficiency while retaining serenity.

When humans were first invited to establish an embassy in Shi'Kahr, Earth's architects relished the challenge of blending Terran designs into the Vulcan motif. Starting with the artists, a design was created, modified, and simplified, drawing on some of the most ancestral of human structures, and when the embassy was opened a decade later, the best of the Vulcan architects pronounced it "satisfactory."

Based on the prehistoric designs of a ziggurat, the United Earth Embassy was built on a large platform, covering several city-blocks in each direction. Two stories tall, the platform was designed in a geometric grid; raised walkways encompassed reflecting "pools," gardens, and artistic paraphernalia representing the many diverse cultures of Earth. In the night, ground-level lights added a soft, muted glow, and the blue-gray shading of the platform complemented the browns and tans of the Vulcan city.

In the middle of the platform was the raised ziggurat, scaling upwards over a dozen stories with terraced sides and sloped corners. It, too, was shaded blue-gray, and rings of soft lighting encircled it. On the front, above the bay-sized door, several spotlights shown on the emblem of United Earth: a two-dimensional map of the planet, with olive branches on either side.

From the entrance, out to the edge of the platform, ran a raised pathway several meters wide. It, too, was lit from below, and the sides angled away gently, merging into the platform below.

Inside the Embassy, a monumental summit was taking place. Nearly a full century had passed since First Contact between Earth and Vulcan: when humans first learned, to their amazement, that they were not alone in the cosmos. On that cold, spring night on 2063, in the mountainous plains outside Bozeman, Montana, humans and Vulcans had shook hands for the first time; but now, in 2154, the promises of that first encounter had yet to come to fruition.

The Vulcans had treated the humans as a "child" race, one needing enlightened supervision as they voyaged beyond the confines of their own solar system for the first time. What emerged was a century of aggravation and discord between the two races. For as much as humanity resented the overbearing treatment, Starfleet recognized that it needed the assistance of the older race, even as it seemed to hold back Earth's stellar progress. And as for the Vulcans…they kept their reasoning to themselves.

But now, after the first successful missions of the Starfleet flagship _Enterprise_, the relationship between Vulcan and Earth was beginning to change. In the eyes of Earth, the _Enterprise _had proven that humans were ready to take their place among their star-faring neighbors. The starship's two-year mission of exploration, followed by its success at stopping the second Xindi weapon—through diplomacy, no less—fueled humanity's ambitions.

And it woke up the Vulcan High Command, triggering a new debate over how to approach the humans. Perhaps, some argued, it was time to treat these newcomers as relative equals.

It was in pursuit of these first seeds of thaw that Starfleet's Chief-of-Staff, Admiral Maxwell Forrest, had come to Vulcan, for the first initial discussions. His goal was to convince the High Command to hold joint missions with Starfleet.

Of course, it did nothing to stop the High Command's penchant for lengthy deliberation.

"Admiral, the High Command will tell you its decision at the proper time," Soval reassured Admiral Forrest as the two stepped the reception hallway together. It was a minor diplomatic function, just a meet-and-greet between lower-level staffers, but Soval had found it logical to attend.

"After all we've been through, I'd rather hear the good news from you," Forrest remarked. Soval was the long-serving Vulcan ambassador to Earth, and the _de facto _Vulcan advisor to Starfleet. The two men had butted heads more than once, usually over the perception that Vulcan was seeking to slow Earth's advancement into the stars, but a grudging degree of mutual respect had emerged over the years.

"The High Command has not seen fit to include me in their discussions," Soval admitted, keeping his tone even. It would not be seemly to allow a human to witness his…aggravation. He did not understand the reasoning behind his exclusion; but it was logical to believe that the High Command had reasons of which he was not aware.

"They're not telling their own ambassador to Earth what they're planning _regarding _Earth?" Forrest snorted. "Welcome to the club." He ran a hand across his close-cropped, graying hair. "I have to say, Ambassador, that it does little to encourage trust."

Soval's own gray coiffure was precisely arranged in a longer design, trimmed just above his ears and brow. "Admiral," he said, masking a sigh; it was a mark of his familiarity with this human that he felt the emotional urge at all. "I know you find our reluctance to share technology and discoveries to be…restrictive."

"I can think of a few stronger words than that," Forrest retorted, before raising his hands in apology. "I'm sorry, Ambassador. I know that you do not make the policies."

The two men fell into line at a security check-point. "The truth of the matter is…" Soval hesitated before continuing. It was not classified material, but Vulcan society preferred to keep its deliberations private.

_It is logical to encourage trust, _Soval reminded himself, recalling one of the _kitaun _of Surak. "We Vulcans don't know what to do about humans," he explained. "The confusion has caused a contradictory, bifurcated policy to develop." It involved engagement on one hand and—_yes, _Soval acknowledged privately—intentionally retarding humanity's scientific progress on the other.

Defenders of the policy claimed that Earth's technological growth had, once again, outstripped its social growth. Under this theory, Vulcan was merely correcting the imbalance while preventing another outbreak of pan-Terran warfare.

After thirty years of serving on Earth, Soval privately believed that there was a different reason—Vulcan anthropologists could simply not explain why Earth's social immaturity had _not _plunged the planet into another war. Terrans had shattered every model; consequently, Vulcan lacked any preset protocols to guide their interactions with Earth.

"How do we confuse you?" Forrest asked, mystified by Soval's assertion. The security line was moving forward gradually, and the two men approached the checkpoint in unison.

Soval folded his hands before him. It was a simple discipline designed to help focus the mind. "Of all the species we've made contact with, yours is the only one we can't define," the ambassador replied. "You possess the loyalty of Andorians and the stubborn pride of Tellarites. One moment, you're as driven by your emotions as Klingons, and the next, you confound us by suddenly embracing logic."

It was their turn at the checkpoint. Diplomatic protocol suggested that the host go first, to show that there was no danger, and thus Admiral Forrest bent over the retina scanner. A red beam of infrared light flashed across his eyes, taking a biometric scan of the neural cells located at the rear of his eyes.

The technician received a positive verification, and waved the admiral through.

"I'm sure those qualities are found in every species," Forrest noted as Soval underwent the examination. Moments later, the Vulcan was also cleared for entrance, and the two entered the main chamber. "I've even heard rumors that you Vulcans _do _experience emotions, and you just suppress them!"

Soval acknowledged the joking slight by raising a single eyebrow. "We do not find these qualities in such confusing abundance," he noted. "Even with the great number of sentient species that reside in the galaxy…you humans seem to be unique."

Admiral Forrest thought he caught a flicker run across the Vulcan's face. "Ambassador," he said, his brow furrowing in curiosity. "Are Vulcans _afraid _of humans?" It seemed incredible, but there it was: that same flicker again, betraying the slightest hint of Soval's mind. "Why?"

"Because there is one species you remind us of," Soval replied.

"Vulcans?" Forrest asked in astonishment. No Vulcan had ever admitted the slightest degree of kinship to humanity.

Soval's carefully-gauged meandering slowed to a stop, and he turned his back to the other reception goers. "We had our wars, Admiral, just as humans did," he remarked. "Like you, our planet was devastated, and our civilization nearly destroyed. Our total devotion to logic saved us." _Saved some of us, _he reminded himself silently.

He couldn't help but think of Vulcan's sundered brethren, the _Rihannsu, _who fled mother Vulcan at the dawn of the Age of Surak. If humanity resembled Vulcan at that moment in time, then the Terran race could go either way: that of Soval's Vulcan ancestors, or that of the _Rihannsu._

Or, perhaps, humanity would continue to shatter the models and forge a third path. "It took us almost fifteen hundred years to rebuild our world and travel to the stars, Admiral," Soval continued. "You humans have done the same in less than a century. Your rapid ascent has already sent shockwaves throughout our region of the galaxy, and you show no signs of slowing down."

Soval glanced around and lowered his voice further. "There are those on the High Command who wonder what humans may achieve in the century to come. And they _don't _like the answer."

"We're not the Klingons," Forrest countered. The very existence of the _Rihannsu _was unknown to Earth, shrouded within the many secrets of Vulcan. "We only want to be your partners, to do with the nations of Earth have learned to do—to work together in common cause."

"Many peoples have said the same thing," Soval replied. "And then they grow, and expand, and come to dominate the partnership." He raised his hands in imitation of the human gesture. "Please understand, Admiral, I do not agree with that view of Earth. Unfortunately, the future of relations between our worlds is not mine to control."

Forrest heard a dull thud come from across the chamber, and even as he turned to look, his instincts were thrown into full alarm. The sound was not natural; something had exploded, and it wasn't a conduit or power tap. The admiral was familiar with those; besides, plasma fires had a distinctive odor.

That left one strong possibility.

The chamber was suddenly filled with a brilliant flash of nearly-white light, washing out Forrest's vision. His other senses became alive: he heard a second, more powerful explosion, followed by the shattering resonance of stone columns, and the acrid stench of chemicals and smoke billowed outwards, clogging in the admiral's nose and throat.

As the blast wave expanded, Forrest turned and dove towards Soval, knocking the ambassador to the ground even as a stone pillar crashed to the floor where they had been standing. The heavy rock tore out chunks of ceiling and bulkhead before hitting the tiled floor, where it bounced and shattered into thousands of shards that sliced outward through the chamber.

His eyes were sealed shut by the blinding flash, and he choked and gagged on the clouds of dust enveloping the room, but Forrest clung to his sensibilities. He knew the layout of the reception chamber; and scrambling to his feet, he pulled the Vulcan along, propelling both of them blindly through the debris. He could feel the heat of flames on either side, but with a map lodged firmly in his mind, Forrest navigated his way to the nearest doorway.

A second, far-more-powerful _BANG! _sounded from behind, and a compressed wave of heat flung Forrest forward. His hearing blacked out, now, but he could feel the fire seeking purchase on his skin, and could feel the torrent of rubble raining down on him.

Starfleet MACOs (Military Assault Command Operations) leapt from their bunks, responding instantly to the shrill scream of alarms that permeated the Embassy. It took scarce seconds to don their fire-resistant gear, grab their weapons, and they assembled on the run. Commands and information shouted through the corridors in carefully-choreographed maneuvers as they shut down the compound and began rescue operations.

From other corridors came the damage-response teams: carrying fire suppressants and medical kits rather than weapons, they too moved with rehearsed precision. The first few minutes were critical to their success: heat and smoke were their greatest foes, but several structural engineers came as well. Their task was to assess the damage for risk of collapse, and erect emergency bulwarks to protect the victims.

From outside, the first blast was invisible; small, designed only to attract the rescue teams to the vicinity, it was completely contained within the reception chamber. The second explosion, however, was colossal; packing a murderous punch sevenfold stronger than the first, it sent ripples of fire scorching down the length of the Embassy.

Then the concussive wave, expanding quickly, blew through the roof, annihilating an entire sector as the yellow and white flames lit up the night.

...

"Captain!" Malcolm Reed shouted, trying to draw Archer's attention. He was open, if only for a second, and the ball flew into his hands. Instantly, two defenders moved on him, even as Archer shifted to block them. Malcolm bounced the ball on the floor as he dodged to the left, then the right, but both routes were blocked.

"Here!" Hoshi Sato shouted from the far side of the court. She was on her own, unguarded, with a clear shot at the basket. Jumping high, Malcolm slid the ball past the outstretched hands of a defender, bouncing it to her.

Hoshi caught the ball, and held it momentarily as the second defender flew her way, leaping high to block the expected shot. She waited as he sailed past, then launched her shot with a hope and a prayer.

It ricocheted off the rim, right into the hands of the stationary Phlox. Clad in a full sweat suit, he was the only player not dripping with sweat and exertion; and unguarded, he had a clear shot at the hoop.

And, to Hoshi's dismay, he was also on the other team.

From the back corner of the makeshift court, Phlox lifted the ball with one hand and sent it sailing through the hoop, hitting nothing but net.

"Trip" Tucker and Travis Mayweather flung their hands in the air in victory. "That's another game!" Trip enthused happily. "Twenty-one to two!" He grabbed Hoshi by the shoulders and give her a playful shake.

"This isn't fair!" Hoshi proclaimed. "You had Phlox! Time to switch sides again, Doctor!" The only non-human in the game, Doctor Phlox had demonstrated an uncanny skill for the sport of basketball; the senior staff of the _Enterprise _had been playing matches for eight days in a row, shifting line-ups, but no matter who he played with, the doctor's team was nearly undefeated. Twenty-one games to one.

On the doctor's suggestion to engage in physical sport, Trip and Malcolm had converted the lower, unused half of the launch bay into a makeshift basketball court. On a ship with two shuttlepods, launch bay stalls three and four were rarely used, except when intensive maintenance was taking place; and parked in endless orbit above Vulcan, the shuttlepods had been stripped, cleaned, and rebuilt days ago.

"Certainly!" Phlox accepted the backslaps and exultations of his teammates in good spirit. "This is a most enjoyable sport. Reminds me of Octran fertility contests."

The doctor's long-winded story was cut off, in utero, by the appearance of Commander T'Pol in the bay doors. Her face was unnaturally serious, even for a Vulcan, and it cut short the good-spirited jocularity existing on the court.

"T'Pol!" Captain Archer greeted her warmly, trying to preserve some of the camaraderie. "Would you like to join us? I think Trip could use a breather!"

"Not likely, Captain," Tucker murmured. "But the old man here might need a break."

T'Polmoved right to the point. "Captain, I've just spoken with the Embassy staff in Shi'Kahr." Her solemnity cast a pall of silence on the assembled staff. "There was a bombing at the Embassy."

Archer's eyes narrowed in disbelief. "What happened?" He began trotting across the bay to her.

"That's all they said," T'Pol replied, and the two disappeared into the corridor outside.

And the jocularity was gone, the good mood spent. Even Phlox's parting comment, regarding Octran fertility contests and basketball—"Except we're fully clothed, which is probably for the best"—drew no laughs. The remaining staff toweled off quickly and left to attend to their duties.

...


	3. Chapter 2

**DAHKUH**

"Separate your souls from everything that is of the senses, from everything that appeareth, and does not exist in truth."

-The Hidden _Kir'Shara _ of Surak

...

Captain's Log, July 15, 2154. We have received additional orders from Starfleet Command. The _Enterprise _is to stay in orbit above Vulcan. As the highest-ranking Starfleet officer in the 40 Eridani system—that is, the highest-ranking _surviving _officer—I have been ordered to oversee the investigation. Vulcan authorities still have no lead on who's responsible.

The death toll from the bombing stands at forty-three, and I have lost my close friend, Admiral Maxwell Forrest.

...

From standard orbit, the Vulcan homeworld looked suspiciously like an Earth salmon. The vast majority of the planetary surface was tinged with the red-orange-pink hue that could only be found on that particular species of Earth ichthyoid; ripples in the surface, replete with vast desert plains and high-ridged mountains, gave the planet a mottled look not dissimilar from fishy scales.

Here and there, pockmarks of off-blue existed. Vulcan had no continents and oceans; instead, it was one vast landmass, with a handful of inland seas dotting the horizon. No belts of green existed, nor any clouds of whispery white. It was a desert world, redder than the red planet, drier than the Patagonia, possessing a solemn stoicism like that exemplified by its inhabitants.

"I'm sorry to keep you from your family," Captain Archer commented as he and T'Pol strode along the starboard corridors of E-deck. It had been a busy three days for the captain. He wasn't _inured _from death, exactly, but their lengthy mission in the Delphic Expanse had taught him how to deal with it. "But I'm going to need you on the investigation full-time."

It was the plethora of new tasks. Overseeing an investigation, tending to emergency repairs, shifting the wounded (both physically and mentally) to different installations, and coordinating Embassy business truly required an entire staff. With the _Enterprise _in standard parking orbit, Archer had delegated a considerable portion to his command crew; but they were not trained for this, and the burden ultimately fell on him.

"That is where I prefer to be," Commander T'Pol replied. The only Vulcan on the crew, and the only Vulcan serving in Earth's Starfleet, she held the twin positions of chief science officer and first officer. Like many Vulcans, organizational minutiae was a strength of hers.

"Your mother and husband will understand?" Archer's voice didn't conceal his skepticism; if it was any other member of his crew, he would bend over backwards to provide her time to visit T'Les and Koss. But she was a Vulcan, and Vulcans had their own way of doing things.

They came to a stop at the primary starboard airlock. Archer began inputting the commands, but looked up as T'Pol spoke. "My mother hasn't responded to my communiqués," she admitted. "However, it is not unusual for her to become lost in her work."

"And what about Koss?" Archer asked uncertainly. He knew that T'Pol and Koss were not on the best of terms, but T'Pol rarely spoke of it. There was something…_secretive _about the circumstances of their marriage, and their relationship bordered on frigid.

"As for my husband…" T'Pol was hesitant, but provided a partial answer. "Our arrangement remains unchanged."

Archer shook his head. _Vulcans, _he thought. _Their logic gets them into the strangest situations, but can't get them out. Or is that just marriage? _Like many career officers in Starfleet, Jonathan Archer was a confirmed bachelor.

The airlock doors hissed open, admitting three dignified Vulcans.

The first, the leader of the trio, was the elder, albeit not by a significant margin. His hair was gray, and his face was worn, showing the years of service that the Vulcan had endured. He was clad in a basic, bluish-gray tunic, but it was overlaid with a remarkably sumptuous robe, colored green with embroidered patterns of red and gold.

T'Pol was uncomfortable in his presence. She had a lengthy and negative history with him, and his imposing nature caused her to fidget under the weight of his hostile gaze.

The Vulcan shifted his eyes back to Archer, and his face resumed its customary impassivity. "Captain Jonathan Archer," he said, acknowledging the captain with a slight tilt of his stentorian head. "I regret that we must meet under such tragic circumstances."

The captain's elbow discreetly hit T'Pol, knocking her from her trance. "Captain, I'd like to introduce Chief Administrator V'Las of the Vulcan High Command," she said. Her discomfort around other Vulcans was apparent, even to the captain.

"Administrator." Archer stepped forward and returned the formal nod. "It is a privilege to meet you. I must say, I wasn't expecting the head of the High Command."

The second Vulcan, standing on the left, was immediately recognizable. "Captain Archer, all of Vulcan grieves with thee," Ambassador Soval stated. The right side of his face was slashed and scarred, with green bruises growing visible. "The High Command considers this terrorist act to be an affront of the highest magnitude, certainly deserving the personal attention of His Excellency, the Chief Administrator."

"Twelve Vulcans also died in the blast, Ambassador," Archer added quietly. "You have our deepest condolences."

Soval lowered his head in respectful acknowledgement. He knew how close it had been to _thirteen _Vulcan deaths. Admiral Forrest's heroic actions would be honored, in the Vulcan way.

"Captain," V'Las intervened. He was not a hasty person, but he was brusque. "To that end, I would like to introduce Stel." He gestured to the third Vulcan. "He is the Chief Investigator of our Security Directorate."

Archer was surprised. He had assumed that the young man was an aide of some sort, but Chief Investigator was a lofty title. Perhaps Stel possessed uncanny ability; _or perhaps, _Archer thought wryly, _I'm a poor judge of Vulcan age._

Stel's hair was dark brown, his face still unlined. He bore the serious mien of youth. Like the administrator, he wore an intricate robe over his standard tunic, but his was decorated in violet and gold.

"Captain," Stel acknowledged formally. His voice was a pure monotone; it gave not a hint of the good news to come. "We now have suspects. May we go someplace private to discuss our findings?"

Archer turned to T'Pol in amazement, but his pleasure was cut short. Her hooded look of suspicion troubled him deeply.

...

"_Andorians?" _Archer asked with amazement at the accusation. The _Enterprise_'s primary conference room was located on the port side of E-deck, and once there, Archer took a seat at the head of the table. The three Vulcans sat down, in line, on the side. "I _know _the Andorians; Earth doesn't have any disagreements with them. Why would they attack our Embassy?"

"They do consider Earth and Vulcan to be allies, Captain," Soval answered. "And if I may, you know _one _Andorian. Commander Shran's friendship should not be taken as symptomatic of the Andorian Imperial Government."

"Our findings indicate that the Andorians are trying to create conflict between Earth and Vulcan," Stel stated. "They want to ensure that Earth will remain neutral in any potential conflict between Vulcan and Andor."

Archer, feeling slightly unnerved by Stel's stillness, stood up to pace. "But we _would _remain neutral," he countered. "We've done our best to remain neutral in your disputes, and the Andorians know that. They have nothing to gain by attacking us!"

Soval leaned inward and steepled his fingers. "You're missing a logical step, Captain. You were not supposed to find out that the Andorians were behind the bombing."

Archer furrowed his brow. "Who were we supposed to blame it on, then?"

"We have reason to believe that the Andorians are working with a rogue Vulcan sect, Captain," V'Las explained. "They were to receive responsibility for the bombing."

"A rogue Vulcan sect?" Archer asked skeptically. "I've never heard of such a thing." Vulcan seemed to pride itself on the conformity of its people; the very notion of rogue sects somehow seemed…unnatural.

Soval shifted in his seat. "Even Vulcan is not without its rogue elements, Captain," he said.

"You just do a better job of covering it up," Archer replied in understanding.

"I know that many humans find Vulcan society to be rigid, Captain," Soval stated. "But it is the only way for us to maintain order and stability."

"That's enough," V'Las said icily.

"Do we at least have a name for them?" Archer asked.

"They call themselves 'Syrranites,' Captain," Soval answered flatly. "They're a small group, but they have certain…notoriety. They claim to follow a purified form of Surak's teaching, but their doctrine is deeply corrupted. They are nothing more than common terrorists."

Archer resumed his pacing. "I've heard of Surak. He's the father of Vulcan logic, right?"

"Even after eighteen hundred years, we still consider him to be the most important Vulcan who has ever lived," V'Las. "He is the father of our civilization, Captain, and the savior of our race. What these _Syrranites _proclaim…is an insult to all of Vulcan."

Try as he might, Archer was growing more confused. "So why would these Syrranites cooperate with the Andorians and attack our Embassy? That hardly seems like an act of logic."

Stel looked down at the table and spoke softly. "If violence is the most effective means of accomplishing a desired end, then it is inherently logical," he answered.

"They've been vocal about their opposition to the High Command, but have traditionally remained peaceful," V'Las added. "However, over the past year, their leader, a dissident named Syrran, has become a dangerous zealot. He has begun advocating violent resistance."

"Captain, I trust you to keep this matter confidential," Soval said cautiously. "This is an internal Vulcan matter, and we don't share it lightly. But over the last year, there have been several instances of violence against non-Vulcans on our world."

"But wouldn't they _oppose _the Andorians then?" Archer asked. "That seems more logical to me."

"Captain, your grasp on Vulcan logic is shaky," V'Las replied wryly. "Syrran believes that, by provoking a war between our peoples and then undermining the High Command, he can ultimately trigger the downfall of the Vulcan government."

"And then negotiate a peace accord that costs Vulcan some colonies, but leaves him in power," Archer said, as the scheme fell in place. The latter half bore resemblance to the Brest-Litovsk treaty between the German Kaiser and Russian Bolsheviks in 1918, but the first half was something else altogether.

But there was something important missing in all of this supposition. "Is there any evidence connecting Syrranites to the bombing?"

"Your Embassy is officially considered to be Earth soil, Captain," Soval replied. "Thus, we have deferred to your investigators."

"We are following leads elsewhere on Vulcan, Captain," V'Las stated. "But let me assure you: we _will _find these criminals."

...

Things always look different in the light of day. Sometimes better, sometimes worse, but always different.

As the shuttlepod neared on final approach to Shi'Kahr, Travis brought the craft down along a flight path that skimmed just over the United Earth Embassy. Looking out the front viewscreen, he let out a low, long whistle of astonishment; the damage was incredible. A giant, gaping hole had been ripped from the side of the compound.

Behind him, Malcolm rode in the jump seat, and was surveying the damage with the shuttle's limited sensors. It simultaneously made it easier and harder; while the sensor telemetry lacked the visual impact that Travis received, the sensors also highlighted the damage not visible to the naked eye.

One corner of the Embassy was completely torn away.

The four top-most levels of the building (out of six upper levels) were exposed to the hot desert air outside. The edges were torn and jagged in a motley arrangement of ripped bulkheads, conduits, and support beams. If one peered closely, dozens of black holes could be seen, where the flames had roared through open passageways and scorched the interior of the complex. The bottom of the blast radius was layered deeply in debris and ash. Around the exterior courtyards, great chunks of debris were clearly visible.

Travis let out another low whistle and turned the shuttle to Shi'Kahr's spaceport.

...

Even the 'undamaged' portions of the compound showed signs of the explosion.

When the twin bombs went off, the wall of fire had roared through every opening it could find; corridors and conduits alike became highways of flame as it tore through the Embassy. The strengthened concussive barriers, alerted by automatic alarm, struggled to hold against the shockwave; some fractured and gave in, while others were scorched within centimeters of their existence.

Travis and Malcolm made their cautiously to the blast site, with Malcolm leading the way. The third-floor hallway was lit only by emergency luminescence; the Embassy's primary power was offline, and would remain so for days to come. In its absence, the lighting strips provided an understated glow; the two officers had brought along flashlights to help guide their way.

They were in a section of the building that was closed off to virtually everyone. Just meters away from the outer blast radius, investigators had yet to comb it for forensic clues, a process which would take days. The painstaking work was complicated by the slow pace in the tomb-like tunnels; every piece of flooring, every bulkhead, and every ceiling panel had to be systematically surveyed for safety before the investigators could enter.

On the personal orders of Captain Archer—the man charged with overseeing the investigation—Malcolm and Travis had come down to get a first "impression" of the damage and begin to assemble an investigative schedule. It was a task for which Malcolm was very familiar; and Travis was learning quickly as he expanded his skills beyond the ship's helm.

Travis flashed his light into a low-slung hole. It was supposed to be a hatchway; for some inexplicable reason, the top portion of the door was still in place, and the two men could duck underneath it to gain entrance. "Commander, this should be the junction room," Travis explained as he led the way.

Inside, even the emergency lighting did not work. Only the beams of the flashlights cut through the darkness in the mechanical room, revealing dark scorch marks where the luminescent strips had once been.

Carefully, Travis entered the room, inspecting every meter of his passage before moving forward. Conduits and pipes hung from above; ragged edges of walls and debris extended from either side. According to his hand scanner, the integrity of the floor was in doubt as well, and he diligently kept to the strong parts.

The warm, stale air only increased the haunted feeling. Their lights threw bizarre, angled shadows along the fractured walls and other debris; with no sense of irony, Travis decided that it felt like the bombed-out shell of an industrial jungle.

Travis ducked under a drooping support beam and flashed his light before him, picking out a path through the debris. The light from the passageway outside disappeared as they moved further in. Everything around them was dead; no power flowed through the machinery, no lights blinked, nothing even glowed with faint current. Malcolm followed, coughing softly as the ash-filled dust was disturbed by their passage.

"Commander, I think we're getting close," Travis murmured as he came upon a pile of wreckage. "Schematics say the secondary security bank's right in there." He flashed his light at the approximate position.

"It should still be in one piece," Malcolm observed as he came up close. The security recorders were typically made with duranium shells; it took quite a bit to break it.

Travis stepped lightly along the front of the pile, scanning it as he walked. "Commander, I'm picking up a weak power signature under this mess."

"That's odd," Malcolm replied, frowning. "There shouldn't be any power coming into these systems." The battery backups were not designed to last this long. "Maybe one of the emergency lights has a malfunctioning battery."

"Over here," Travis said, waving Commander Reed in. He directed his beam at the reading. "Underneath that sheet metal."

Malcolm knelt down beside the new lieutenant and scanned the reading. "There's something in there," he said with alarm. "This doesn't look right. Travis, I want you to lift that sheet, but go _very _slowly."

"Aye, sir," Travis answered. He slid a pair of work gloves onto his hands and grabbed the jagged edge of the sheet metal. Slowly, cautiously, he leveraged it upward, trying to avoid any cascade in the debris pile.

"A little bit further," Malcolm murmured, and then: "Shit."

Travis looked underneath, and thought the same thing.

It was clearly a bomb. It was no larger than a data padd; a palm-sized detonator sat in the middle, surrounded by six vials of a translucent-green liquid. Red lights flashed on the detonator.

"The timer might be broken, but that bomb's armed," Malcolm whispered. Travis froze in place, quashing the slightest quaking in his contorted muscles.

Malcolm flipped open his communicator. "Reed to _Enterprise,_" he said softly. "I need an emergency transporter lock. Two to beam up, on my mark."

"Acknowledged," T'Pol replied from the ship above. The relative loudness of her voice made Travis flinch, but he caught the sheet without panic.

"You okay, Travis?" Malcolm asked quietly.

"As long as we do something soon," Travis whispered back. His muscles were beginning to complain; it wasn't the weight of the sheet metal as much as the sheer awkwardness of his position. "Can we beam the bomb out of here?"

"It wouldn't be safe," Malcolm replied. "Newer detonators often contain a gravity switch to thwart transporters. If this has one, it'll simply detonate in the matter stream."

"_Enterprise _to Reed." This time, it was Hoshi's voice that boomed loudly in the tense stillness of the mechanical room. "The transporter's locked. Do you need other assistance?"

"Just stand by, _Enterprise_," Malcolm replied. He had two hands, and three tools; grimacing, he placed the flashlight on the floor, angling it towards the bomb. He kept his communicator open with one hand as he held his scanner in the other. "I'm going to attempt to scan it."

"Attempt?" Travis asked nervously. He stared at the blinking object. "_I'm _the one right in front of it, Commander."

"Well," Malcolm eased his way forward on his knees, trying to minimize any vibration in the floor plating. "If _I _had designed that bomb, I'd rig it to go off the instant a sensor beam made contact."

"So naturally, you're making contact with a sensor beam," Travis retorted quietly.

"Look on the bright side, Lieutenant," Malcolm remarked. "If it detonates, we'll never know. Steady with that panel."

"Remind me to get even with you in the afterlife," Travis murmured.

Slowly, cautiously, Malcolm eased his scanner beneath the raised sheet, and held his breath as he activated the scanning beam.

The bomb did not go off. "I'm boosting scan resolution," Malcolm whispered.

The blinking lights suddenly terminated, then flashed in unison.

"That can't be good," Travis muttered.

"Shit," Malcolm said simultaneously. He brought his communicator up. "_Enterprise_! Transport!"

As they vanished, an explosion ripped through the room.

...

The logic behind home detention escaped T'Les.

But then again, so did the logic behind incarceration. Oh, sure, she understood the putative claims: that it denied the prisoners their liberty of movement and social interaction. But for a true daughter of Vulcan, confinement was meaningless; for it still allowed the one liberty she truly desired, that of the mind.

And, of course, she wasn't truly detained at home; she was still free to come and go, and continue her daily activities outside of the house. But the Security Directorate made it known, in ways both subtle and otherwise, that such an adventurous spirit would only cause her grief.

So she willingly stayed home, focusing on her meditation and study. Confinement did not bother her, for she was not confined in the ways that mattered; the concerns of this realm were ephemeral, after all, only shadows of a flawed and ignorant mind.

And when she did feel the illogical urge to move, she could always step out onto the veranda.

Like many Vulcans, T'Les did not live in Shi'Kahr, nor the other handful of cities that were bare blips on the desert landscape. Her home was many kilometers outside, isolated from any neighbors, blending in with the rusty tans of sand and rock. It was the sort of seclusion and asceticism that helped focus the Vulcan mind.

Standing on her veranda, T'Les could still feel the daytime heat radiating from the stone mosaic beneath her feet. The geometric inlay was richly detailed with delicate patterns of spiraling complexity, such that only a focused and open mind could perceive the archetypes within.

It was nighttime, although the skies were not truly dark. T'Rukh, hanging low over the horizon, cast a steady glow onto the Vulcan homeworld. Between the glow and the dry, clear skies, T'Les could see the highlighted tips of a mountain ridge, many kilometers distant, and they beckoned to her.

A part of her yearned to leave, to drop everything and take off for those distant points of rock.

By Vulcan standards, the breeze was slightly cool, but she did not notice. It was a simple physical concern, unimportant and easily discarded. Her concerns were of a far more esoteric nature, exemplified by the mountains distant.

It was not the constant watching of the Security Directorate that made T'Les feel confined; it was the constant demands placed on her, the constant expectations and requirements that she adhere to the customs of orthodox Vulcan society.

As a true student of Surak, she had begun the process many years previous of subjecting every aspect of that orthodoxy to firm, logical analysis. Many parts came up wanting, the claimed logic weak and undermined by flawed assumptions and ignorance. Increasingly, she had grown disaffected. The State taught only the _form _of Surak, not the substance; and T'Les found it to be unsatisfactory.

Now, as T'Les stood on the veranda, watching the stars twinkle over the desert landscape, she heard a shrill whistle come from inside. She did not panic; she did not even react immediately. Instead, she let her final thought drift away, then bowed her head in supplication.

She knew what the whistle meant, and knew how much time she had.

T'Les had been on the Security Directorate's watch list for some time now. Thus far, they had not arrested her; she was a respected professor, and most Vulcans considered her to be harmless, if a little eccentric. Her teachings contained a drumbeat of pacifism.

But in the aftermath of the bombings, the game had changed. Now, everyone associated with a splinter sect was under suspicion for violence. It was logical to expect a crackdown.

She had, at best, fifteen minutes in which to make good her escape. The Security officers were on the way, but a fellow traveler within the Directorate had given her warning. She entered her home, and in the kitchen she found a sharp, pointed knife. Directing the point at the side of her neck, she flinched the knife quickly, slicing through the outer epidermis. A small spurt of green blood came out, along with a tiny tracking device.

She was set on her course, but felt no qualms, no last-minute doubts, nothing but serenity and clarity.

On her way out, T'Les allowed herself one completely irrational, illogical moment.

When the Security officers arrived, they were greeted with the scrawled slogan of "Surak ha-tor." _Surak lives._

_...  
><em>

Stel paced the corridors of the _Enterprise _with a single-minded determination. Jonathan Archer, who was no slacker when it came to determination, had to trot to keep up; and T'Pol, with shorter legs, was nearly forced into a jog as she followed behind. With customary Vulcan discipline, Stel knew exactly where he was headed, and tolerated no distractions along the way.

The trio reached main sickbay. The doors hissed open obediently, granting them ingress to the abode of Doctor Phlox, who stepped over to greet them. The Denobulan physician looked worn, which was perhaps no surprise; as the ranking Starfleet MD in the system—and ironically, he wasn't even a commissioned member of Starfleet—he had being overseeing medical triage, tending to the wounded, and collating the dead. It was a tiring task, even for the ebullient Denobulan.

"How are they, Doctor?" Archer asked softly, respecting the hushed tones of sickbay. The captain's eyes surveyed the room, checking the biobeds for the two he wanted, until he located them along the rear bulkheads.

"They're recovering nicely," Phlox answered _sotto voce. _He knew, instinctively, who the captain was referring to. "Lieutenant Commander Reed and Lieutenant Mayweather both suffered burns, but nothing we couldn't handle." The transporter beam out had occurred just as the bomb exploded; fast enough to save their lives, but not fast enough to avoid all injury.

"Can I talk to them?"

"They're both sedated at the moment, Captain." Phlox noticed the look of confusion, and clarified. "It's simply to help with the pain. I can wake them, if you insist."

"That's alright, Phlox," Archer replied. "Malcolm's scanner readings are sufficient for now."

Stel had waited his turn, and now cleared his throat in what he had been told was a human gesture. "And your findings, Doctor?"

"Ah, yes." Phlox motioned for the threesome to follow him, and he led them towards the aft quarter of sickbay. Along the way, they skirted two biobeds, both containing victims of the Embassy bombing; to Archer's eye, both appeared to be recovering, although one would later need a biosynthetic leg.

Phlox's office was small but cozy. The doctor cued up a file on the primary monitor. "Before the bomb went off, Commander Reed's scanner detected trace amounts of Vulcan DNA on it," Phlox explained. The twisted, helical images were clearly the referenced DNA. "I contacted the Vulcan Genome Registry, and with Stel's assistance to clear the security and privacy waivers, they returned a match."

The image changed to show a young Vulcan woman. At the most, she was in her mid-30's, still a youth by Vulcan standards; the familiar, pointed ears and tapered brows were covered by a ragged mop of brown hair, not shorn in the standard Vulcan style.

Stel stiffened almost imperceptibly.

"Who is she, Phlox?" Archer asked. Was this woman responsible for the bombing of the United Earth Embassy, and the considerable loss of life?

Stel answered instead. "Her name is T'Pau."

"Ah," Archer replied carefully. "I take it you've had run-ins with her before?"

"T'Pau is a well-known Syrranite, Captain," Stel answered, somewhat unwillingly.

"Since you had her DNA on record, does that mean she's been arrested before?" Archer asked, seeking some clarification.

"We have not found cause to arrest her as yet, Captain," Stel answered. "But she has been a person of concern for some time."

T'Pol leaned towards the captain, and spoke for the first time. "The Vulcan Genome Registry records DNA from all Vulcans at birth, Captain," she explained. "It is a matter of…efficiency."

Archer knew better than to question a lucky break. "All right, then," he stated. "We've got a solid start; now we need to find her."

Stel turned to face Archer. "Captain, your portion of this investigation is now complete. We have determined who placed the bomb, and the saboteur is Vulcan. I thank you for your assistance, but the Security Directorate will handle the remainder of the investigation."

"Of course," Archer said unwillingly. "Vulcan sovereignty, and all." He pushed a different tact. "Lieutenant Commander Reed and Commander T'Pol will liaison with you."

"Their assistance is not required," Stel replied impassively.

Archer tried to quash a slow burn. "It is from where I'm standing, Chief Investigator. Need I remind you that humans were the primary target of the bombing? She has committed crimes against _my _people, on _Earth _soil." The slow burn grew. "If I'm going to hold her accountable in a court of law, then I need to have some of my own people involved in the investigation!"

"Captain, your argument is not without a certain internal consistency," Stel admitted. "But you are making a flawed assumption. T'Pau is Vulcan; she will be held accountable before a Vulcan tribunal, according to our ways."

Archer's slow burn flared. "That's not acceptable, Investigator!" he snapped. "The crimes she committed—_allegedly _committed—were against citizens of Earth! We have jurisdiction!"

Stel's expression did not change. "She is Vulcan; thus, this is an internal matter. This is now a Vulcan security operation, Captain. Any interference will be regarded as hostile."

"And we're just supposed to trust you on this?" Archer retorted with belligerent amazement. "When you're not even going to tell us what's going on?"

"Ambassador Soval will inform you of any developments that concern you," Stel answered. He was unmoved, both figuratively and literally; he had not even blinked. "If you will excuse me, I must return to my investigation." The Vulcan turned and left.

Archer waited until Stel had disappeared before slamming a fist into the bulkhead; the vehemence caused T'Pol to jump, and Phlox to whip out his medical scanner. "You appear to have done more damage to the wall than your hand," Phlox murmured. "I rather like my sickbay, Captain. Would you please refrain from damaging other parts of it?"

"Are your people always this frustrating, T'Pol?" Archer growled. He grabbed his hand and began to massage it.

The slender Vulcan woman took a second to answer. "Stel's penchant for secrecy is logical, Captain," she admitted. "Security operations _do _work the best when knowledge is strictly controlled."

Archer's fury bled out in his aching hand. "Back on Earth, Commander, excessive secrecy is nothing but a recipe for tyranny."

"Tyranny is illogical," T'Pol replied, but her eyes betrayed her concern.

...

Happenstance left Hoshi Sato in charge of the bridge.

On its face, it wasn't completely unusual; the communications officer was in the official chain of command, albeit somewhere down around person six or seven. Far enough down, that is, that she was rarely in charge of the bridge. If the captain or T'Pol wasn't present, Lieutenant Commander Reed or Lieutenant Mayweather typically filled in, and the night shifts had their own commanding officers.

And it wasn't a particular problem, at least not today. Hoshi had no interest in command, but while they sat in parking orbit above Vulcan, there wasn't much to do. Ensign Hutchinson, holding down the helm during Travis' convalescence, handled the only significant duty of watching their orbit. Another crewmember staffed tactical, more out of routine than necessity; Vulcan orbit was one of the safest places in the stellar neighborhood.

Which left Hoshi free to concentrate on the communications channels. Eschewing the command chair, she stayed at her normal post, listening to the chattering array of comm traffic for anything unusual, anything of significance. Her earpiece fed her several communications at once, piped in from multiple frequencies, and she separated them mentally, discarding the flotsam along the way.

There was the usual array of orbital comm traffic; ships entering orbit, ships leaving orbit, shuttles traveling to and from the surface and threading their way about the orbital lanes. This alone was the bulk, and while it remained routine, Hoshi paid it no heed. There was nothing of significance there, nothing worth looking at more closely.

Then, there was traffic going to and from the surface to the orbiting ships and platforms. A large part of this was insignificant as well; personnel messages, some duly encrypted, others not. One collection of channels was dedicated to Vulcan Space Command, another to the Science Directorate, and still another to the Security Directorate; Hoshi recorded these, and shunted them into stored memory for later decryption and analysis. _There's nothing like spying among friends, after all._

There was another channel, open and clear, that she listened to with scant interest. It was the _Ron-tu_ News Agency, the official news channel of the Vulcan High Command. Their delivery was dull and unemotional, the substance quite uninformative; _Vulcans may not lie, but they sure know how to obfuscate_, Hoshi thought. She was listening for any mention, however slim, of the Syrranite "terrorists."

And there went the bulk of the recognizable channels: the daily montage of life and work in near orbit of a planet. But with those discarded came the tasks that Hoshi truly enjoyed: the bewildering array of background noise and filtered signals that filled the medium with static. Some were naturally-occurring, others artificial, and some possessed no clear genesis at all. It was a logical puzzle that demanded solving.

As Hoshi sorted through these, a peculiar band of static stood out from the background. The carrier wave itself was quite normal; it was part of the natural ion flow of the system's solar wind. But it was remarkably clear, possessing little degradation. It was an anomaly, one bearing investigation.

Hoshi isolated the signal on her control board. The computer identified it as natural background radiation, but she was not satisfied with that response. The signal was remarkably tight, directed into the ether en route to other systems.

_Other systems_…Hoshi extrapolated the course. It was on a dead course for a binary star system, some twenty or so light years away. A standard F5 main sequence star, with a faint white dwarf companion. It was immediately identifiable as Procyon; the native inhabitants called the system Andoria.

_The signal is coming from somewhere on Vulcan, but where?_

_...  
><em>

_Quote from The Martyrdom of Peter  
><em>


	4. Chapter 3

—**REHKUH****—**

"Therefore my people go into exile for lack of knowledge."

-The Hidden _Kir'Shara _ of Surak

...

Sunrise came early on Vulcan.

Above the desert, the cloudless sky glowed in hues of orange, segueing into soft pinks as it fell behind the cutout of the distant mountains and into the distant horizon. Many shades of delicate color blurred together, changing every moment, as the sunlit brightness imbued the heavens with softness and warmth.

Hanging several degrees above the rocky peaks was a yellow disk, its shape and form clear in the sky. The constant swirl of desert sand helped imbue the star with a gentle nature uncommon among suns; one could almost gaze directly at it, despite the near proximity of the burning furnace. It was 40 Eridani A; _Nevasa, _to the native inhabitants.

_Nevasa;_ in ancient mythology, it was the archetype representing the highest state a materially-bound Vulcan could attain. _Nevasa _was the son—the sun—of the archetype of Light and the Goddess of the Shadows. _Nevasa _was the greatest teacher of them all, known for imparting patience, persistence, endeavor, and endurance; those who embodied _Nevasa _could hope for a healthy career, a long life, and to prosper in everything good and right.

The morning sunlight lit up the world.

T'Les sped across the sand on her desert scooter. The sanctuary of the mountains was still many kilometers distant; unlike humans, evolution on the desert planet had trained the Vulcan people to accurately gauge distances, and T'Les knew she still had a ways to go. Of course, it was neither positive nor negative; it simply was, an irreducible statement of the material reality. Neither hope nor fear crept into her mind as she focused on keeping the scooter stable.

Far ahead, the mountain ridges cut sharply into the sky, separating what was above from what was below. Harsh lines and sharp angles, lit in a darker hue of orange, formed the crest; and beneath were the unmistakable lines of slopes and ravines, as the mountains fell downward to the desert floor.

Before it, the desert extended outward to every horizon. Sand as far as the Vulcan eye could see; endless acres, uninterrupted by life or civilization. It was tan, and orange, and yellow, as the dawn light reflected from the countless sand crystals. Here and there, punctuating the flat landscape, were rocky outcroppings and pillars, remnants of ancient hardstone plugs and granite fixtures that had formed, anomalously, in the sandstone.

T'Les expertly altered her gaze, shifting it from the sand beneath her, to the scooter's gauges, to the mountains ahead, and back again. She was no newcomer to the vehicle; it was a common, if rudimentary, means of desert travel, used when one did not have the time to walk the sands. She had practiced regularly, in anticipation of this moment.

She firmly believed that this moment had not been inevitable. T'Les had long known that she was at odds with the High Command; her university teachings were tinged with elements that challenged the orthodoxy, but wasn't that the way of higher education? To teach the students to challenge what they had been taught previously?

No one believed—seriously—that the High Command would act against the university faculty, as long as they didn't press for actual insurrection. The university, after all, had a history of principled dissent that had existed for many generations prior. In great respect to knowledge and education, previous authorities had refused to crack down on it.

But the current regime…under the leadership of V'Las, the High Command had become more rigid and authoritarian, demanding obedience and adherence to the orthodox teachings. After all, those who challenged the teachings challenged Vulcan society itself, and thus made themselves enemies of the people.

And if the High Command itself brought stability and security to Vulcan, then was it not logical to obey its dictates? And thus, anyone who refused must be suffering from the disease of irrationalism. It was a virus, a parasite, which must be stamped out before it could spread.

And so T'Les found herself speeding across the desert, her vehicle aimed at the towering mountains in the distance. There was no turning back; by her actions, she had declared herself to be in a state of rebellion against the High Command. And the greatest punishments of all were reserved for traitors.

But it was an aesthetically-pleasing sunrise.

...

For Stel, there was one great illogical mystery about the High Command that he had never been able to solve. One great puzzle that defied reason and required an un-Vulcan leap of faith…how had V'Las, who was the _least _able to suppress his emotions, risen to be Chief Administrator? Of the five members of the High Command, the other four were all more Vulcan in their deportment.

_But then_, Stel acknowledged, the post of the Chief Administrator had not been created to be the ethical symbol of the Vulcan way. That honor was reserved for the great philosophers trained at the Science Academy. The post of the Chief Administrator was a nuts-and-bolts position of government management.

It still required a ray of faith to believe that such an emotional Vulcan could be the most efficient administrator. But it was logical to follow the dictates of the High Command, and obey the Chief Administrator in all things.

"Are you satisfied with the evidence implicating the Syrranite T'Pau?" The question was asked smoothly by another member of the High Command, Administrator Soketh. He was known for being less stringent in the application of authority; some of his more logically-formalistic colleagues wondered if Soketh's logic wasn't improperly tempered by the great fallacy of functionalism.

Despite being half the age of the youngest member of the High Command, Stel felt no trepidation in voicing his reasoned conclusions. "The evidence is thin," he admitted. "The forensic investigation has found other traces of T'Pau's DNA in and around the blast zone, but we have been unable to determine how she gained entry." It was a gaping hole in their investigation, one that must be filled before Stel would close the file.

"But there is no reasonable doubt that T'Pau planted the bombs?" V'Las interrupted. He leaned forward on the crescent-shaped table in an appalling lack of control.

"There is no reasonable doubt that T'Pau planted the _second _bomb," Stel replied carefully. "The forensics indicate no other logical conclusion. But it is only a presumption to argue that she also planted the first one."

Soketh steepled his fingers carefully. "Can you elucidate, Chief Investigator?"

Stel nodded slightly. "Of course, Administrator. We have found only trace fragments from the first bomb, and none that have been sufficiently preserved to provide DNA traces. As such, we cannot logically conclude that T'Pau ever handled the bomb, and much less that she was responsible for planting it."

"It is of no consequence," V'Las interrupted. "We know that T'Pau planted the second bomb; unless you can provide evidence to the contrary, she is thus the most logical suspect for the first bomb as well."

Stel stayed himself. The reasoning was thin, but it was not his place to question the Chief Administrator of the High Command.

V'Las turned to his colleagues. "The guilt of the Syrranites has been demonstrated to my satisfaction," he stated firmly. "The time has come for us to take action against them!"

"With all due respect, Chief Administrator," Soketh countered, "guilt is a question for a court of law, and not this assembly. And to take action against the Syrranites _a priori_ would be most illogical…it would only undermine the integrity of our justice system."

"If these were ordinary criminals, I might agree with you," V'Las snapped. He eyed his fellow Vulcan with something akin to suspicion. "But these people are _insurrectionists_, Administrator. They are anarchists and traitors! And if we do not strike back _now, _then they will believe that they have won. Action is necessary to preserve order!"

Stel said nothing, even though V'Las seemed like a poorly-written character from a speculative novel.

Soketh ignored the baleful look. "You are making assumptions, V'Las, with precious little fact. You accuse the Syrranites of being insurrectionists, and base it on the assertion that _one _of their number allegedly planted these bombs. That assertion, in turn, is based on the assumption that the Syrranites are insurrectionists. I have seen stronger reasoning from _Klingons._"

"There seems to be another assumption in play." The soft voice of another administrator, Narvel, entered the fray. "You are assuming that we can afford to wait, Administrator Soketh. But if the Syrranites _are _in league with the Andorians, then we do not have the luxury of time. The Andorians could already be assembling their fleet."

"_If _and _could, _Administrator," Soketh replied.

"It is illogical to wait for conclusive proof," Narvel answered.

Soketh raised both eyebrows. "And what if our assumptions are wrong?"

Narvel kept his own brows lowered. "Is it not always better to err on the side of security?"

As the two quarreled, V'Las seemed to realize that Stel was still in the room. "You're dismissed, Chief Investigator," V'Las commanded.

As Stel turned and left, he put the debate out of his mind. He would follow as the High Command ordered; it was logical to trust their reasoning, and illogical to question it.

...

In the days before replicator technology, starships had to carry enough supplies to outfit extended missions in the far reaches of space. To satisfy this need, great portions of their interior space was taken up with cargo bays; to hold food, clothing, engineering supplies, and the various detritus of human habitation.

Of course, as the _Enterprise _flitted around the neighborhood, it was never more than a week or so away from Earth and resupply; so the cargo bays remained relatively empty, easily convertible for mission support. But this was not the sort of mission support envisioned by the ship's designers.

The cargo bay doors slid open before Archer, granting him ingress to the space within. An immediate shiver ran along his spine. He did not know the source; the room had been artificially chilled, but the shiver may have also come from its occupants.

Spanning the room, laid out in rows, were thirty-one coffins holding the mortal remains of the human victims of the Embassy bombing. And Archer knew, without having to look, that some of the coffins were fuller than others; some of the victims had left behind precious few remains, and in ancient tradition, the coffins were lined with rubble from the bombing to weight them down. On top of each coffin was draped the insignia of United Earth; an ovoid map of the globe, with olive branches on either side, against a background of deep blue.

The captain had been here once before, when he helped move the coffins and arrange them in respectful pattern. He didn't need to consult the padd in his hand; his memory from that difficult day was sufficient to guide him as he stepped into the field of dead. Midway in, he came to a stop, and rested a hand on a casing.

_Maxwell Vaughn Forrest_

_2095-2154_

_United Earth Space Probe Agency; Starfleet Command_

_Chief-of-Staff, 2049-2154_

_Fortiter et Fideliter. _

The bay doors opened again, startling Archer from his temporary reverie, and he turned about as the doors admitted Ambassador Soval to the makeshift morgue. The Vulcan ambassador nodded slightly, respectful of the reverent silence, and entered the forest of coffins to join the captain.

"His death is a loss to both our worlds," Soval offered as he glided to a stop beside Archer. The Vulcan's sharp eyes and memory had identified the coffin from across the room. His heavy robes rustled slightly as they fell into place. "He was a testament to the future between our peoples."

Archer bristled under the weight of the words; Soval had never seemed particularly interested in pursuing an equitable future between Earth and Vulcan. The ambassador had played a major role in holding back Earth's first forays into the stars. "If you're lost, Ambassador, I can direct you to your shuttle," the captain offered pointedly.

Soval did not miss the implication, but chose to ignore the emotional undertone. "He saved my life in the explosion," Soval observed. He raised a hand hesitantly and rested it on the shell of the coffin; it was a common gesture for humans, but a deeply significant one among the physically-reticent Vulcans. "He could have saved himself, but he put the mission first."

"He gave his life because it was the right thing to do," Archer replied tightly. "But then, that's illogical. I wouldn't expect you to understand."

The corners of Soval's mouth stayed steady, but his eyes seemed to flicker once with gentle humor. "The preservation of life provides its own logic, Captain," he answered softly. "That belief is one of the many things that our peoples have in common."

Archer glanced back down at the coffin, feeling slightly chastened. "I'm sorry, Ambassador," he replied gingerly. "It's just—I wonder sometimes if a Vulcan can truly understand the bonds of loyalty."

"There is much about the Vulcan way that you do not understand, Captain," Soval answered. "Just as there is much about the human way that _we _do not understand."

The two stood in momentary silence as they contemplated the epitaph together.

Soval broke the moment first. "The last time Admiral Forrest and I spoke, he was anticipating the prospect of joint missions between Starfleet and the Vulcan Science Directorate. Humans and Vulcans, working together."

"On equal footing?" Archer asked quietly.

"On equal footing," Soval confirmed. "The more time I have spent around your people…the more convinced I have become that our futures lie as one."

Archer sighed audibly. "The High Command seems determined to prevent that."

"The High Command does not speak for all of our people, Captain," Soval replied. "There are many who question the integrity of the High Command's logic."

Archer's head jumped up in surprise, but Soval's face gave no hint of the ambassador's own leanings. "However," Soval continued, "it makes no sense to think that the Syrranites are responsible for the bombing of your embassy."

"With all due respect, Ambassador, we have the DNA evidence implicating T'Pau," Archer observed.

Soval raised an eyebrow. "Even you should realize, Captain, that DNA can be found in places that the person has never been."

Archer opted to ignore the rebuke. "That doesn't seem like the most likely explanation, Ambassador."

Soval was unruffled. "The Syrranites are staunchly non-violent, Captain. They refuse to injure another being, even in self-defense. This bombing would be a behavioral aberration."

"Things change," Archer countered.

"Indeed." Soval looked steadily at the human. "One possible answer is that one, or several, Syrranites have undergone a shift in their reasoning." It seemed obvious to the captain, but he couldn't help but think of the ambassador's earlier words: _there is much about the Vulcan way that you do not understand. _"The second possibility," Soval observed, "is that someone is framing the Syrranites."

Archer's brow furrowed. The second possibility seemed far wilder, but Soval would not have mentioned it without reason. "Is there something I need to know, Ambassador?" he asked carefully.

"Conduct your investigation, Captain," Soval replied. "Question what you're told. Re-check everything. Don't let them push you out, and don't let them keep you on the _Enterprise_. The answers you need are on Vulcan, and don't rest until you have them."

T'Pol focused on the solitary candle. The small flame flickered and danced, twisting in a random pattern as it radiated scarce amounts of heat and light. It glowed with understated strength, sufficient to cast shadows across her quarters, and bring the soft hues even to the corners of the room.

...

T'Pol focused on the solitary candle as she tried to cleanse her mind, flushing out the daily detritus and restoring it to a state of meaningful emptiness. Unspoken thoughts, unclear words, a montage of contrasting images and ideas, they slowly settled out of her mind.

T'Pol focused on the solitary candle as she allowed the sensation of serenity to rise up from somewhere deep inside. It rushed, it flowed, it ebbed and sank as it filled her, expanding outward to saturate her mind and permeate her body. The peaceful awareness relaxed her, eased her senses and comforted her battered nerves.

And then the door chimes rang.

T'Pol released a private sigh before she stood up and leaned forward, snuffing out the candle. A simple order to the computer restored the artificial lighting, and she turned to the door. "Enter," she commanded.

The door hissed open. Koss entered hesitantly. He looked at T'Pol for a long moment before speaking.

"It is agreeable to see you," he said finally, visibly uncertain of his place.

This time, T'Pol's sigh stayed inside as she gestured him forward, and the door quietly hissed shut. She held up her right hand, extending the first two fingers, and Koss did likewise; their fingers brushed momentarily, exchanging the slightest spark.

In accordance with Vulcan custom, T'Pol and Koss had been betrothed in their youth, but the telepathic bond of betrothal never developed beyond that faint speck. The air between them remained frosty and formal.

"What is the purpose of your visit?" T'Pol asked, seeking to move the encounter along to its conclusion. It wasn't that she _disliked _Koss; but his presence reminded her of the agreement she had made with him…and his parents. Koss' father was a high-ranking member of the Security Directorate, and part of V'Las' inner conclave.

"Does a husband need a purpose to visit his wife?" Koss responded. His tone was less chilly than T'Pol's; despite everything that had passed, he bore a great deal of respect for the slender Vulcan woman.

T'Pol turned away. "Your message was cryptic," she observed.

"My apologies, my wife," Koss replied. "But it was necessary. The High Command has authorized the Security Directorate to conduct roving taps of private communications." It was knowledge above his own security clearance, but it was a poorly-kept secret in the Directorate.

"Why would they do that?" T'Pol asked, perturbed, as she turned back to face her husband. Privacy was part of the Vulcan way; _it should not be discarded lightly, _she thought. _Or at all._

Koss' equanimity was undisturbed. "The High Command has ruled that the Syrranites are a terrorist element," he explained. "Their ruling has brought new security measures into effect."

A major piece of the puzzle was still missing. "And you found it logical to keep the substance of your communication private from the authorities," T'Pol commented. Her mind was still grappling with the unheard-of invasion of privacy. "You have something to tell me that the authorities shouldn't hear?"

"Something to give you," Koss answered. "It is from your mother. She asked me to deliver it personally." From within his robes, Koss withdrew a small box and handed it to T'Pol.

Intrigued, T'Pol accepted the box. She lifted it once, gauging the weight; it was substantive, but not heavy. Her delicate hearing could detect faint metallic chimes. Satisfied, she opened the box.

She took the object out and let it rest in the palm of her hand. A lengthy, slender chain drooped down. The object could be worn as a necklace, even though that wasn't the primary purpose of the pendant. Maybe half the width of her palm, it was roughly circular; the edges of the stone disk had been worn smooth with the passage of time. On the face of the disk were two circles, one large and external, the other small and internal. Between them was a triangle; its apex was at the center of the inner circle, and its base extended outward beyond the rim of the outer circle.

It was an IDIC—an ancient symbol, predating even the time of Surak. It represented the maxim of "Infinite Diversity in Infinite Combinations."

"The Lady T'Les told me that it's been in your family for generations," Koss explained. He watched closely as T'Pol turned the disk over in her hands, inspecting it from every side. "She wanted to make sure that you received it."

Oddly enough, T'Pol didn't recognize this particular pendant. Her family did possess ancestral IDIC symbols; as a young child, T'Pol had seen them all. And this was not one.

"Why didn't she give this to me herself?" T'Pol asked carefully. _And why would she want to circumvent the security monitors?_

"It's the new security crackdown," Koss answered. He quashed the need to fidget. "They've forced your mother into hiding to avoid arrest."

_My mother? Hiding? Arrest? _

"Your mother is a Syrranite, T'Pol," Koss said. His tone was uncommonly kind. "When the Security personnel arrived to arrest her, she had already fled. She's hiding somewhere in the Forge."

...

Some days, the door chime was the last thing the captain wanted to hear. His ready room was a sanctuary; a place to clear his mind, reset his thoughts, and weigh the deep thoughts that plagued starship captains and amateur philosophers. Interruptions were not wanted; solace was.

Other days, Archer would nearly leap from his chair when the chimes rang. His ready room was also his administrative office; it was there that he did his paperwork, and paperwork increased exponentially with the starship's proximity to Earth. And today, he was inundated.

"Come in," Archer called out gratefully as he rose from his chair. The door slid open to reveal T'Pol. "What can I do for you, Commander?" He crossed his fingers and hoped that the response would be, _what can I do for _you, _Captain?_

The worn impassivity on T'Pol's face dropped away as the door hissed shut. Even now, months after their return from the Delphic Expanse, T'Pol still struggled with the emotional control that had once been second nature. "I have some information on the Syrranites, Captain," she stated. Her voice wavered slightly. "I have reason to believe that my mother is one."

"Your mother is a Syrranite?" Archer asked, amazed. The renegade Vulcan sect had instantly become something far closer, far more personal, than a group of Vulcans _out there _somewhere. "And she never told you?"

"My mother and I did not always agree on points of logic." T'Pol forced herself through the discomfort; as a rule, Vulcans did not discuss family disagreements with outsiders. But the captain wasn't _really _an outsider; and T'Pol wanted the investigation to succeed as much as Archer did. "She may have believed that I would turn her in."

"Would you have?" Archer asked directly. Recent events had reminded him that Vulcans were not, after all, human.

"Possibly," T'Pol acknowledged. "It would have been my duty to do so."

"Of course," Archer said reflexively. "The greatest good, and all that." The Vulcan philosophy burned him like a bad cup of Klingon coffee. "Have you talked to her about it yet?"

"I have recently learned that she is in hiding." T'Pol fidgeted uncomfortably. She trusted the captain; otherwise, she would have been unable to discuss this at all. "The High Command has issued a sealed warrant for her arrest. Rather than comply with the warrant, she fled."

Archer raised an eyebrow, unconsciously imitating the Vulcan gesture. "Someone warned her?"

"That is the logical conclusion," T'Pol affirmed. "However, I believe that my mother wants me to find her."

"And why is that?" Archer asked curiously.

T'Pol held up a stone medallion. "She arranged to have this delivered to me," she explained. The pendant dangled on the chain. "It's called an 'IDIC.'"

Archer took hold of the pendant and looked at it carefully. "Looks old," he observed.

"I have not yet determined its age," T'Pol replied. "But that is not the relevant fact. This particular IDIC has been modified." She took the pendant back and lay in on the captain's desk. Delicately, she pushed and twisted a portion of it around, then stood back.

From the inner circle, a green glow emerged, radiating outward above the pendant. As Archer watched, the glow slowly resolved itself, and within seconds, it resolved itself into the recognizable geolinear contours of a map. It was clearly rugged terrain; a vast, central basin surrounded by a series of mountain ridges and ravines. There was something about it that resonated danger.

"This is a desert called Vulcan's Forge," T'Pol explained. The captain's eyes were fastened on the holographic map. "It is considered to be the most brutal terrain on all of Vulcan. It is where Surak went for enlightenment. Even today, many Vulcans follow the same path."

"Eighteen hundred years ago?" Archer asked. The desert features became clearer to him as he studied the map, partially entranced by its mystic beauty.

"The Syrranites allegedly have a compound somewhere in the Forge," T'Pol said. "It is…an excellent area for hiding. The magnetic anomalies in the Forge make it nearly impossible for any technologies to function."

Archer bent over to look at the Forge more closely. "And you think your mother is somewhere along that path?"

"It is a logical conclusion," T'Pol replied. "It is fair to assume that she fled to a Syrranite base."

"But how do you know that this was intended as a message?" Archer queried. "It could simply be an ancient artifact, or something."

"She told Koss that this medallion was a family heirloom," T'Pol answered. "But I've never seen it before."

Archer nodded. "And she didn't want Koss to know about the map."

"Captain…" T'Pol prodded herself forward. "If we search for my mother, she may lead us to the terrorists who bombed the Embassy."

...

As usual, Doctor Phlox greeted the captain with the face-splitting grin characteristic of Phlox's Denobulan ancestry. It was contagious; the corners of Archer's mouth crept upwards as well as the human entered sickbay.

"Ah, Captain, what can I do for you?" Phlox exclaimed as he navigated his way between biobeds. On an average day, the floor plan was roomy and spacious; besides the primary examination bed in the center, there were only three permanent recovery beds. But in the aftermath of the Embassy bombing, Phlox and his medical staff had broken out the secondary units. Most of the patients had been dismissed, but the beds were still scattered about sickbay.

Archer used his chin to gesture from the doorway to the rear section, where Malcolm Reed and Travis Mayweather lay snoozing. "I was wondering when I'm going to get my officers back, Doc."

Phlox waved the captain along the perimeter to his office, speaking as he walked. "If needed, they could return to duty shortly, but I'd like to keep them for another day or so. Their bodies are still recovering strength," Phlox added.

The two reached Phlox's office almost simultaneously. "Is there any hurry to get them back on duty?" Phlox asked as he led the way in.

"A bit," Archer admitted. "Don't spread it around yet, but I think that T'Pol and I are going to be taking an extended leave on the planet's surface. I'd like to have my senior staff on their feet."

Phlox took a seat at his desk. Queuing up the appropriate charts on his desktop monitor, he checked the physiological indicators. "I should be able to discharge both Lieutenant Commander Reed and Lieutenant Mayweather to active duty by eighteen-hundred tonight," he answered.

"That's more than enough," Archer answered, but he didn't turn to leave. "Doctor," he said hesitantly, "you examined the DNA signatures on the second bomb, right?"

Phlox looked up and gave the captain a questioning glance. "Yes, I did," he answered.

Archer fidgeted slightly; he didn't like questioning Phlox's work, but it was necessary. "How sure are you of the results?"

Phlox took no offense. "The DNA signature was conclusive, Captain." He drew his chin inward in a Denobulan expression of confusion. "Is there something in particular?"

"Soval mentioned something to me earlier that got me wondering," Archer admitted. "Is there any way that the DNA could have been faked?"

Phlox's face puckered as he thought. "It _was _clearly T'Pau's DNA, Captain," he answered. "Artificial DNA _can _be created in a laboratory, but its markers are easy to distinguish."

Archer bit his lip. "Can you give me any other possibilities, Doctor?" he asked. "Is there some way that her DNA could have been planted?"

"We're not talking about a hair or blood sample, Captain," Phlox replied. "It would have taken a sterile lab and some fairly advanced equipment to plant these samples."

"Is there any way to tell?" Archer asked quietly.

Phlox contemplated his monitor as he spoke. "There are only two or three such labs in the Vulcan system, Captain."

"Leave that part to me, Doctor," Archer replied. "From the scientific standpoint, could someone have falsified this DNA?"

"I suppose if someone had access to the proper equipment…but they would also need a sample of her original DNA, Captain." Phlox was clearly reluctant, but lengthy experience had taught him to trust the captain's suspicions. "I'll go through the data again, although I'm not entirely sure what to look for."

"Do it, Doctor," Archer ordered. Now, the captain moved to leave, but Phlox's voice stopped him.

"Oh, Captain, please stop by before you leave for the surface. Human physiology is not designed for prolonged stints in the Vulcan deserts, but I can give you some things to help."

...

As a rule, Vulcans disdained excessive comfort, preferring instead to live a life of almost monastic austerity. Ambassador Soval was no different; if anything, his three decades on Earth had reinforced in his mind the benefits of the Vulcan way. It was simple and robust, encouraging a life of meditation and mental focus, supporting the disciplines of the mind.

Thus, prior to the _Enterprise_'s departure from Earth for the 40 Eridani system, Jonathan Archer had arranged with his crew to strip down the guest quarters into an ad hoc "Vulcan" mode. The primary guest quarters, down on G-deck, were far from luxurious; nothing on a starship was truly luxurious. But they removed the usual assortment of added comforts. The bedding was stripped down to a thin pallet; the air ducts were partially clogged, to artificially increase the temperature; and every hint of adornment and decoration was removed.

Naturally, during the days-long journey from Earth, Soval made no comment other than "it is adequate."

As the turbolift arrived on the lowest level of the starship, the captain couldn't help but wonder why Soval had maintained his presence on board the ship. As the ranking Vulcan ambassador to Earth, Soval no doubt had facilities at his disposal in the government district of Shi'Kahr; and from what Archer knew of the Vulcan people, the company of aliens was a trial that must be endured.

And yet, Soval had set up office on board the ship. _Vulcans, _Archer reflected. _They're so illogical._

The door to Soval's cabin slid open, cutting off the captain's thought.

"Captain." The dour Vulcan stepped in from the washroom, still fumbling with his heavy robes. He greeted Archer with a curt, formal nod. "What can I do for you?"

Archer stepped in hesitantly, uncertain of the protocol for visiting a Vulcan dignitary in their personal space. "Ambassador," he acknowledged politely. He couldn't help but notice the starkness of the room; there was no hint of habitation. "I have a—theoretical question for you."

With a final nudge from one hand, Soval got the thick robes to fall into place. With the other, he indicated towards the adjoined conference room; Archer picked up the cue and led the way.

Once inside, Archer stood awkwardly still as the Vulcan turned his back, facing out the viewport. Here, on the lowest reaches of the starship, the window was nearly below their feet; and Soval looked down in contemplative silence. "What is it you ask of me?" he asked finally, encouraging the captain to speak.

Archer took a deep breath. "You and I were talking earlier about pursuing the investigation into the bombing," he said.

"I recall our conversation," Soval replied brusquely. The back of his robes didn't ripple.

"Yes, of course," Archer replied magnanimously. The ambassador's curt tone was not meant to be offensive; it was simply a Vulcan way of stating fact. And it had taken the captain several years to learn how to let it roll off his back. "You also indicated that the answers are down below, on Vulcan."

"Yes, I did." Soval kept his back turned to the captain.

"Well…" Archer licked his lips before continuing. "It leaves me in a quandary. I need to get my investigators down to the surface, but without the High Command's supervision."

"That is a quandary," Soval agreed. "The High Command will assign an observer to any crewmember that you send to the surface."

"I was wondering…hypothetically…if you might have some ideas," Archer pressed.

The Vulcan stayed silent for several long moments as he watched the starscape outside. Roughly a third was blocked by the great bulk of the Vulcan homeworld; across from it, sensitive eyes could detect the inner asteroid belt of the Epsilon Eridani system. "Hypothetically, Captain?" Soval said at last, and now he turned about.

"Yes, Ambassador," Archer replied. He was at a loss for substantive words.

"Hypothetically…" Soval seemed to ponder the question before continuing. "Vulcan is protected by a detection blanket; thus, your transporters can get through, but the Security Directorate would be able to trace them." Soval lifted both eyebrows. "Surely, Captain, you see the logical answer."

"Thwart the detection blanket," Archer answered instantly. "But how? Is there some way to disguise the transporter beam?"

"Captain, you are overlooking a far more obvious solution," Soval observed.

Archer cursed the Vulcan inwardly as he thought through the puzzle. "Of course," he said in realization. "Detection fields are pulsed, not steady. With split-second timing, you can still slip a temporary signal through." _But that's not the hard part._ "Ambassador, in order to do that, we'd need to have fairly advanced schematics of the field. That's not the sort of information the _Enterprise _can collect on her own."

Soval dropped one eyebrow. "However, hypothetically, if you had the information, you could transport your investigators to the surface undetected, correct?"

"Well, yes," Archer acknowledged. He was starting to fume; the ambassador didn't seem to be getting the point. "But without the data, it's a dead end."

Soval didn't flinch. "Prepare your mission, Captain," he stated.

...


	5. Chapter 4

—**KEHKUH****—**

"Simplicity is the keynote to a good life. Choose the simple things always. Life can become complicated if you let it be so. You can be swamped by difficulties if you let them take up to much of your time…Love the humble things of life. Reverence the simple things. Your standard must never be the world's standard of wealth and power."

-The Hidden _Kir'Shara _ of Surak

...

As Jonathan Archer left the conference closet, Soval turned about again, letting his gaze drift out the viewport. _It is_, he thought_, a good view of Vulcan. _The _Enterprise_ was at the prime point of orbit for Nevasa to light up the planet's surface; the reds and oranges shone brightly, and Soval could easily picture the heated kiln of the hearthworld. Not a single cloud blurred the surface.

_Mother Vulcan_, Soval thought, recalling some of the adages that he had learned long ago in his childhood. The fount and source of life, but also the purveyor of passion and irrationality; it birthed new life, only to usher it into a world of brutality and callousness, doing its best to confine that new life to a meaningless existence in the wasteland.

_Do not hate my obedience, and do not love my self-control,_ he recited. The words took shape in his mind, forming breadth and depth. _I am the one they have called Life, and you have called Death._ His obligation was painfully unclear; logic and reason warred within him. _I created you, yet you forsake me._

_Order is logical. It provides the most efficient allocation of resources for the greater good. Order can only be preserved by a firm hand and strict obedience; to disobey is to reject order. Obedience is logical._

_The High Command is the highest reflection of the logical will of Vulcan society. Only the best, the most logical, reach its esteemed heights. Their logic is thus above impeachment by others; to question the High Command is to disavow logic and undermine order._

And Soval understood the High Command's logic. The way of secrecy was logical, for it did promote stability and order. Yet there seemed to be a fallacy somewhere that he could not identify; a weakness, a fatal flaw, in the formal chains of rigid reasoning. For the High Command's actions were inherently logical, but they troubled him nonetheless.

...

40 Eridani is a stellar youth, with an estimated age of under a billion years, possessing uncommonly-high rates of chromospheric activity and rapid stellar rotation. With these properties comes a high level of magnetic activity, resulting in the expulsion of a dense flow of charged gaseous particles from the star's upper atmosphere.

30 times more powerful than the solar wind from Earth's own sun, the outpouring from 40 Eridani saturated the inner solar system. It took Vulcan's strong magnetic field—itself a product of the system's young age—to protect the planet within from the deadly blanket of radiation and preserve the planet from atmospheric stripping. In billions of years to come, Vulcan would eventually become a stripped, desiccated hunk, an extrasolar Mercury; but for now, life could still adapt to the muted affects of the radiation.

After all, the planet's magnetosphere did not completely protect the surface. The planet was hot, dry, and possessed higher levels of ambient radiation than most life-affirming biospheres. And some of the charged particles became trapped in the magnetosphere, where they followed transmission lines down through the upper atmosphere and ionosphere, all the way to the planet's surface.

Thus, the south polar region of Vulcan was a wasteland of geomagnetic storms, massive auroras, and free-floating plasmas.

This was Vulcan's Forge.

...

"Captain, have you seen the reports on this place?" Trip asked as he chased the captain down the corridor. Archer was wasting no time; he had a mission, a direction for his investigation, and he wanted to be on his way. "It's an absolute hellhole!" Trip exclaimed.

Archer didn't look back. "It's a Vulcan desert," he replied. "I expect it'll be hot." He had changed from his usual duty coveralls to Starfleet's specially-designed desert gear; the fabric was loosely woven to allow the body to breath, and the tan colors were treated with a reflective mesh.

"It's a helluva lot more than that!" Trip countered in amazement. He had to jog to keep up. "It's got electrical sandstorms, radiation baths, and geomagnetic instabilities that wipe out every bit of technology!"

"I know, Trip," Archer said calmly.

Trip wasn't giving up. "That means no communicators, no scanners, no phase-pistols, and no transporters!" He ran through the list quickly. "You're going to have to walk in—and if something happens, we can't get you out! Hell, we won't even know, because we won't have communicators!"

"I'll be careful," Archer replied.

"Captain, have you even thought about this?" Trip asked in exasperation. "The Syrranites bombed the Earth Embassy less than a week ago—and now, one of the Syrranites is leading us directly _to _them? This doesn't even make sense!"

Archer finally looked back at the engineer. "I'm not convinced that the Syrranites were responsible for the bombing, Trip." He slowed as they rounded the final corner. "You've got the _Enterprise_, Commander. Keep the investigation going up here, and don't let the Vulcans back you away. Whatever they tell you, do the opposite."

The last words came out as the two humans entered the transporter alcove, and earned them a raised eyebrow from Soval. "Present company excepted, of course," Archer amended. T'Pol was present as well, ready to beam down to the surface.

"Captain, Commander." Soval greeted them impassively. He held out a data module to Trip. "You may find that this shows minute gaps in our satellite surveillance. You should be able to slip a transporter beam through one."

Trip took the module and inserted it in the transporter controls. The necessary data streamed in, showing coordinates, frequencies, and times. _We could crack their entire surveillance system with this, _he thought in amazement. "I'm thinking we're not exactly cleared to have this," he added aloud.

Soval regarded the engineer with an eyebrow. "Have what, Commander?" he said evenly. "All I see is a standard data module."

"Of course," Trip said wryly. It took only a second to program the transporter. "Captain, what if something _does _go wrong down there?"

"Something already has, Trip," Archer replied. He stepped onto the pad. "Energize."

The captain disappeared in a twirl of light, and T'Pol stepped up to the platform. "Energize," she said, and she disappeared as well.

As Trip stepped away from the controls, he couldn't help but feel the weight of concern on his shoulders. Jonathan Archer was one of his closest friends, and T'Pol…they had sorted things out. Mostly, at least. And now they were gone, wandering a region of Vulcan that most _Vulcans _avoided.

Ambassador Soval turned and left without a word, causing Trip to analyze the Vulcan's back with concern. _What is Soval up to? _

_...  
><em>

It was hot.

The Australian Outback. Death Valley. Northern Africa—Tunisia and Libya. Ethiopia. Jonathan Archer had been to them all, usually as part of Starfleet survival training. They had been tests, but he endured.

Vulcan's Forge was uniquely brutal.

Captain Archer and Commander T'Pol stood in a slight ravine, nothing more than the depression between two towering mountains of stone and sand. No shadow existed to protect them from the roiling heat of Nevasa. Archer swore he could feel the moisture being leeched from his body; he thought fantastically of an old Earth saying—"At least it's a dry heat"—and disagreed vehemently.

For the heat was all-pervasive, as if it came at him from every direction. It came from the sun above; it came from the stone and sand beneath his feet; it was carried on faint breezes that brought no relief. And it _was _dry; the captain was losing hydration faster than the sweat stains could form on his desert gear.

"This site is called the Gateway," T'Pol murmured. "It is the customary place to start a pilgrimage into the Forge." The ravine formed a low pass in the mountain ridges that ringed the Forge. It wasn't much; maybe a hundred meters at best, Archer judged, although the air was so clear that he was uncertain.

The captain gestured for his Vulcan companion to lead the way. The path beneath their feet, trodden for many centuries, was worn smooth. The underlying sandstone could be seen beneath a thin cover of sand; it formed a snaking pathway, scarcely as wide as a person. Archer kept his gaze fastened on the trail as it threaded the mountain pass.

Some time later they came to the end of the trail. T'Pol came to a slow halt, and Archer stopped beside her in astonishment.

The Forge, spread out before them, was huge.

They were still hundreds of meters above the vast floor. In front of them, a sandy slope cascaded downward, the sand blazing white and pink beneath the orange skies. Well-worn rocks created small bumps, protruding upward in the endless sand. And far below…

Before them lay vast badlands. Towering piles of heavier rock jutting upward in tableau and mesa, ravines and basins threaded between, and boulders strewn across the valleys. The captain had seen badlands back on Earth, but they were infantile when compared to this. The size and scale were immense, and threatened to send his mind reeling.

"This is where Surak supposedly began his journey into the Forge," T'Pol murmured beside him. Her lips barely opened as she spoke.

"You keep saying 'supposedly,'" Archer replied. He kept his mouth thin as well. "You don't believe that Surak did the things they said he did?"

"Belief is not relevant," T'Pol replied. "There is insufficient evidence in the historical record to prove that he did, or did not."

Archer looked down at the shorter woman. "There must be _some _record."

"There are several records," T'Pol allowed. "Some official, and others deemed heretical. The Syrranites are one of the sects that embrace the heretical records."

"And what of Surak himself?" Archer asked. He felt like he was beginning to understand the root of the current conflict. "Did he keep any writings?"

"He did," T'Pol replied. A note of unwillingness was evident. "But they have since been lost. His contemporary followers made copies, but they contain several discrepancies."

"Let me guess," Archer offered. "With the originals lost, whatever's left is open to interpretation."

"There is only one orthodox teaching," T'Pol countered. "Although…many Vulcans have privately expressed dissatisfaction with it."

Archer smiled. "It sounds familiar. C'mon, we should get moving." He placed one foot forward, and began working his way down the sandy slope.

...

When Trip Tucker entered sickbay, he found the doctor hunched over a monitor in his office, oddly engrossed with the readings. It took two cleared throats and a none-too-discreet stomp to tear Phlox's focus away from the…well, Trip had no idea what was on the monitor.

"Ah, Commander!" Phlox exclaimed, breaking into his usual ebullient greeting. "You must see this!" The doctor waved Trip into his office, and with a suppressed grimace, Trip went in. Phlox's enthusiasm rarely translated into interest for the engineer.

"What do you have, Doc?" Trip asked, settling in beside the Denobulan. On the monitor were a collection of lines and shapes.

"The captain asked me to re-examine the DNA from the bomb to see if anyone else might have handled it," Phlox offered as a way of introduction. "These fragments—" he pointed to the shapes on the screen. "—these are trace parts of the DNA we initially found."

"T'Pau's DNA." Trip's voice was curt.

"Yes," Phlox confirmed. "But I found some anomalies."

"How serious?"

"Serious enough that I'm not sure T'Pau even handled the bomb, much less planted it." Phlox zeroed in on the tip of one fragment. "Here, in this particular chromosome. These are telomeres. A sort of genetic clock, if you will." Phlox gestured with his hands. "Every time a cell divides, they grow shorter."

"Right," Trip commented. He vaguely recalled the information from an old university course. "That's how you can tell how old someone is from a cell sample."

"Not _quite_, Commander," Phlox countered. "It determines how old the individual was when they _gave _the cell sample, not necessarily how old they are today. Once the specific cell is separated from the body, it 'dies,' and the telomeres are frozen in length."

"Okay." Trip nodded, somewhat following along. "And what's special about these telomeres?"

"T'Pau's current age is thirty-two Vulcan years, Commander, but the DNA recovered from the bomb has an age of only a few months."

Trip took a second to consider the information, and the implications came in a jolt. "This is DNA that she 'lost' as a baby. But why would that be on the bomb?"

"I matched it, Commander," Phlox said grimly. "These samples are from the DNA taken when she was registered as a baby."

"Someone planted the DNA." It almost staggered Trip. "Someone framed her."

"Precisely," Phlox confirmed. "The evidence implicating T'Pau is false."

...

When night arrived on Vulcan's Forge, the stars emerged from behind the sky-bound firmament, shining strongly and brightly in the great expanses of darkness overhead. No atmospheric fillers, no pollution, no clouds, no humidity existed to subdue the pinpoints of light; only the dry, hot air of the desert. It carried with it a static charge that filled the Forge with a sense of alertness.

From over the horizon, the faint glow of T'Rukh cast a faint pall over the surface. It obliquely reminded Archer of primitive lighting effects in the old days of Hollywood, when "night" was accomplished by placing a dark glass over the camera lens. It created a sense of inexplicable brightness on the surface, as though the sand and rock were reflecting light that had no source. It rendered the alien landscape even more unusual, more foreign, more unfamiliar.

The two officers, Jonathan Archer and T'Pol, sat on an outcropping of rock at the base of a tall slope. They had been walking all night, traveling during the cool hours of midnight and beyond when the temperatures fell ever-so-slightly from the daytime furnace. When the light of Nevasa returned, they would seek shelter and rest; but at the moment, the human captain needed to catch his breath. Even with the medicine provided by Phlox, the thin air took a quick toll on Archer.

Archer looked overhead, his attention caught by a streaking light among the stars. _It's not a meteorite,_ he thought, squinting his eyes carefully. The tail was too short, and the light too dim. He turned to T'Pol, but she had already noticed. "It's an atmospheric patrol craft," she explained shortly, conserving her words even in the coolness of night.

Archer furrowed his brow. "I thought technology didn't work in the Forge," he replied, confused by the revelation. Was their presence detectable?

"The disturbance fields interfere with the normal workings of electromagnetism," T'Pol corrected. "The patrol craft used here rely on more primitive forms of combustion for propulsion."

Archer was still less than pleased. "So can they see us?" he asked pointedly.

"No," T'Pol replied flatly. "The Security Directorate has yet to create sensors that can operate under those constraints. The patrol craft must rely on eyesight."

Reassured and relaxed, Archer took a long, slow draught of cool water from his pack. "No wonder the Syrranites like it here," he offered thoughtfully. In the still, barren retreats of the desert, a certain vitality charged through the air and the ground, replenishing life and reminding the Forge's occupants of their own fragile nature. The captain could feel the energy deep inside, coursing through him in harmony to the alien land around him.

From across the desert floor, a harsh, ear-rending screech rang out in the shadowed darkness. T'Pol flinched, then stood up quickly. "We're being stalked," she whispered. Her eyes were trained outward, searching for the source of the scream, as she pulled her pack over her shoulders. Unbidden, her hands deftly maneuvered the straps to fasten it on tightly.

"What the hell was that?" Archer whispered, rising beside his science officer. He, too, looked over the landscape, but saw nothing. Another wrenching screech rang out, causing the human to cringe in momentary pain.

"It's a sehlat," T'Pol replied softly. She moved little as she shifted her feet. "When I say go…"

Archer nodded in understanding.

"Run!" T'Pol barked, and everything sped up.

Leading the way, T'Pol skated down the short slope to the ravine below, the captain following closely behind. It was a short dive, and they were off, dashing along the baked dirt, their gear packs racketing madly on their backs. They followed the curving path, covering meters every second, charging forward with little heed.

The angry yowl behind them seemed closer, and Archer risked a quick glance over his shoulder. In his stunned astonishment, he nearly tripped over his own feet; the beast was only ten meters or so behind them, and it was a monster. Easily as large as a Terran bear, it ran on four legs with the grace of a great cat. Shaggy fur covered its body, and its eyes shown a diabolical green from within the protected cavities. Four enormous incisors filled its mouth, anticipating the thrill of ripping into soft, warm flesh.

"Run faster!" T'Pol offered helpfully as she kept up the mad pace. Accustomed to the climate, she spoke without gasping. "Higher ground! They won't climb!" She glided lightly over the long-dead riverbed, her arms swinging at her sides.

Archer didn't answer, but simply followed as T'Pol altered her course towards a tall, rock-faced dune that rose high above the ravine. They slowed as they hit the lower slopes, scrambling on the loose gravel to find safe footing. Cascades of sand and pebbles showered down in their wake.

"Higher!" T'Pol ordered as the slope grew more pronounced, and now they resorted to hands and feet as they skittered up the broken rock. A handhold here, a foothold there, and more than a little momentum carried them upwards. The howling was right behind them now, the beast hot on their trail.

Archer risked a glance beneath them. The beast was down on the lower slope of the rise, but it had stopped there, and was pacing back and forth, searching for a pathway up. Frustrated, it howled plaintively.

T'Pol came to a halt on a small platform some fifteen meters above the beast, and the captain gladly slowed as he sucked for air. "What did you call that thing?" he asked, panting, as he waited for his breath to steady.

"It's a sehlat," T'Pol replied carefully. "It's one of the larger predators on Vulcan."

Archer let his heavy pack slide off his shoulders, and sat on top of it. His jagged breath slowed, bit by bit, as the scarce oxygen flowed back into his lungs; he leaned forward, propping himself up on his knees. "How long before it starts to lose interest in us?" he asked, watching the beast warily.

The beast paced below, showing no sign of leaving. "Days, at least," T'Pol answered. "Large prey is hard to find in the desert. When a sehlat finds a target, it can be very persistent."

"Great," Archer mumbled. He knew that they would have to move before the morning came; their ledge was far too exposed to the punishing heat of Nevasa.

They lapsed into a temporary silence before T'Pol spoke again. "When I was a child, I had one as a pet," she offered.

Archer turned his head in disbelief. "You had one of _those_?" The beast below was easily as large as a human. In the starlight, it reminded the captain of a…_saber-toothed bear_, he decided. Definitely not something you keep around as a pet.

"It was domesticated," T'Pol replied with a slight tone of defensiveness. "They were smaller. Slightly."

The captain couldn't help but grin. "How slightly?"

"You have Porthos," T'Pol answered protectively.

"Porthos doesn't try to eat me when I'm late with his dinner."

T'Pol sniffed. "Vulcan children are never late with their sehlat's dinner."

...

V'Las set down his cup of _savas-masu_ as he stared out the window. The view was astounding; the great planet of Vulcan was spread before him in magnificent vista, across the city of Shi'Kahr, out into the great deserts, crossing the dry, shimmering air, beneath the darkened orange skies…_even a tested Vulcan cannot help but be moved by such beauty,_ V'Las thought as he drifted momentarily into a state of contemplative fugue.

Of course, his…guest…was anything but a tested Vulcan.

"It is time to step up the campaign against the Syrranites," Talok stated brusquely, intentionally ripping the Chief Administrator from his moment of solace. Rather than the chilled fruit juice that V'Las favored, Talok was sipping a thick, green beverage called _t'mara omi_; and with a harsh movement, he slammed down a quarter of the viscous liquid in a single shot.

V'Las let out an audible sigh as he turned from the window. "The time is not yet ripe," he countered, setting his own glass on his desk. "I have succeeded in turning the tides against the Syrranites, but there remains some opposition to stamping them out by force."

"Then finish the job," Talok shot back harshly. "You Vulcans are all alike: when it comes time to take action, you dither around in circles of abstract _logic_. It's a wonder you haven't been conquered a dozen times by now!"

V'Las bristled under the attack. "The problem is not my people!" he snapped angrily. "Your plan is not—"

"You _had _your chance to object." Talok cut the administrator off. "You committed yourself to our course of action. Don't grow weak on me now, _Vulcan._" His face twisted into a sneer as he said the word. "Perhaps I should find a new ally on this thrice-forsaken _eshikh _of yours!"

V'Las stepped forward heatedly. "I will perform my duty!" he retorted. "But you must be willing to adapt your plan as circumstances change!"

Talok bared his teeth at the shorter, smaller Vulcan. "You _hafau-ha-vel_!" He spat the word downward, and V'Las shrunk before him. "We are going to proceed! _Now_! I don't care how you make it happen—just do it!"

V'Las didn't reply until he had placed his desk between the two. "I have the agreement of four of the five administrators—but you know that it requires unanimity to authorize military action!" He placed his hands on the desk for psychological support. "Minister Soketh keeps asking questions! Questions that _I _can't answer!"

"_Guvikt _him!" Talok rejoined. "Vulcan military command answers to _you_, V'Las!"

V'Las, his nerves spent, fell back into his chair. This conversation was not going the way he intended, but perhaps he was the fool for believing that he had any control. He knew that he was ultimately expendable; if he did not acquiesce, his counterpart would simply circumvent him. "What do you want me to do?" he asked finally, his words soft.

Talok leaned across the heavy desk. "Order aerial bombardment of their suspected encampments in the Forge. Have your lackeys at the _Ron-Tu _News Agency prepare favorable coverage about the danger of allowing these radicals to survive for another day. Portray yourself as taking decisive action to protect the Vulcan heritage from this hellish threat. _Seize _the reins of leadership, V'Las. Your people are too passive to resist."

V'Las nodded numbly.

...

"Hey, Doc!" Trip's running words carried across sickbay as the chief engineer/captain _pro temp_ jogged through the doorway. "Do you have a minute?"

Phlox looked up from his work, a little taken aback by the energetic entrance. "Of course, Commander," he replied. His voice had a surprised lilt in it, but the words were inviting. "Come in," he added, waving Tucker over to his office.

Trip beat the doctor in, and had a computer file already cued before Phlox arrived. "Doc, you gotta take a look at this," Trip exclaimed as he punched in commands. "It's from the security logs that Malcolm retrieved from the Embassy." A hasty, if delayed, glance into the main portion of sickbay confirmed that the tactical chief had been discharged earlier that day.

The sampled clip was short—Trip had excised a ten-second section from the main visual recordings, showing the primary security check-point. As Phlox watched, the line of attendees slowly shuffled through, first bending over the retinal scanner before passing through the body imagers.

"Mm-hm," Phlox observed non-committally. He hadn't noticed anything, but then again, he didn't know what to look for.

Trip pulled up another file beside the first; Phlox recognized this one as a log of biometric signatures. "I synched the visual recording with the biometric logs," Trip explained excitedly. "You can see here, in the log—the Vulcans identified this as T'Pau's signature. Supposedly, this is how she smuggled in the bombs. You can see the chemical signatures."

Phlox frowned. Even to him, the errors were glaring. "If she was in their records as a potential terrorist, why was she allowed in?"

"It doesn't make sense, does it?" Trip's fingers flew over the controls. "So we deconstructed the log recordings, and guess what? T'Pau's biometric signature is an overwrite. Someone _else _originally went through, and the file was later altered."

"But who could—" Even with the course their investigation was taking, the thought troubled the doctor. "Who would be able to do that?"

"Not many people, Doc," Trip replied. "Not many. But here's the best part—watch the visual carefully when the fake T'Pau goes through."

Phlox nodded and watched carefully as Trip re-ran the clip. It showed a robed person bend over the retinal scanner for a couple seconds, straighten back up, and pass through the imagers. Beneath the robe, it was impossible to see any facial features.

Phlox shook his head. "I'm not sure what you're seeing, Commander," he stated truthfully.

Trip zoomed in on the guard seated behind the retinal scanner. "Watch him closely, Doc," the engineer said, and he ran the clip again.

Phlox watched with amazement as the guard's face and mouth moved. "He recognized the person," Phlox realized, stunned by the discovery. "They appear to be on friendly terms!"

"Yep," Trip confirmed. He pointed out into main sickbay. "And that guard is one of your patients. Corporal Askwith. He can tell us who really planted the bomb."

Phlox sat back. "I hate to disappoint you, Commander," he said softly, "but he can't. He's in a coma, and his cranial injuries are substantial. I don't expect him to recover."

Trip's shoulders slumped. "There must be a stimulant you can inject him with," Tucker suggested, fishing for ideas. "Something that can bring him around. We just need a few minutes."

"There's only so much damage a human body can withstand," Phlox replied. "I wish I could help you, Commander, but there's no way to wake him up."

"I don't care so much about his body, Doc," Trip answered. "We need what's in his mind."

...

One part of Jonathan Archer desperately wanted to hurl a rock at the screeching sehlat.

It remained below, pacing back and forth through the darkest hours of the night, unwilling to surrender the prey that it had found. Stalking about, the massive furred animal would randomly scream in high-pitched howl, the eerie sound ricocheting off the canyon walls. The effect made it sound as though the animal was on every side, moving about with split-second speed to match the slight delay in soundwaves.

Archer fidgeted about on the rock, trying for the dozenth time to find a place of comfort; but whatever he did, something seemed to stick into his back. Sighing, he again wondered if he could brain the persistent creature with one of the many loose stones. "Sounds like that Klingon opera Hoshi made us listen to," he groused, referring to the harsh screams.

Somehow, his comment succeeded. For immediately after, Archer's ears detected a second scream—similar, but still quite different—coming from the canyon floor, and the heavy lumber of the sehlat running away. Archer shook his head in confusion and looked over the lip of their ledge.

Down below, barely visible in the glow of the desert night, was a Vulcan. "The path is safe again," the newcomer called up to them, seemingly undisturbed from coming so close to such a violent end.

Gratefully, Archer swung his legs over the ledge and started skating down. "That's quite a trick," he said as he skidded down the rocky embankment. "Can I ask where you picked it up?"

It took only seconds to reach the floor, and the two parties came face-to-face. "You're a human," the newcomer noted evenly, his demeanor serene. "Travelling with a Vulcan."

It took a second for Archer to identify the source of his own dissonance; the newcomer, he realized, did not look much like the other Vulcans the captain had encountered. His robes were dusty and beaten; his hair was shaggy and unkept; and he held his body with a relaxed ease. "Jonathan Archer," the captain said.

"T'Pol," his companion offered.

"Curious," the newcomer replied, and he said no more.

The captain waited for several uncomfortable seconds before realizing that the newcomer was going to speak no more. "May we ask your name?" he said finally, hoping to trigger at least the most basic of information.

"Arev," the newcomer stated.

"That means 'desert wind,'" T'Pol offered in response.

Arev shifted his eyes to the Vulcan woman. "Does it?" he asked rhetorically. He looked back at the human. "Why are you here?"

"We could ask you the same thing," Archer countered. Arev's lack of openness unnerved the captain.

Arev arched both brows. "Is it logical to ask a Vulcan why he is _on _Vulcan?"

Archer sighed. "I'm on a pilgrimage to study Surak and logic," he replied, offering up their cover story. He gestured to his companion. "T'Pol is my teacher."

Arev nodded towards T'Pol. "I welcome thee to walk with me, sister," he told the lithe native. "But this is no place for your kind," he added, shooting a directed glare at Archer. "Turn back."

Archer steeled himself. "If it's all the same, I'll walk with you, too."

Arev studied the human for a second before nodding in acceptance. "You may walk with me, human, but you accept the responsibility. This desert is called the Forge for a reason; it will test and destroy you." Saying no more, Arev turned abruptly and started along the canyon floor.

Archer exchanged a perplexed glance with T'Pol and followed behind.


	6. Chapter 5

—**KAUKUH****—**

"Logic is the beginning of wisdom, not the end."

-The Hidden _Kir'Shara _of Surak

...

The threesome stood on the rim of a lengthy canyon, dancing and snaking its way between limestone bluffs for kilometers on end. At one time, undoubtedly, a great river had run its course here; but that was eons past, in an earlier era of Nevasa, long before the Vulcan planet became a parched wasteland.

Arev pointed forward at the canyon floor; the sand, usually a dusty brown and tan, seemed to contain a faint hue of pink. "The Plain of Blood," Arev stated, his words short. "Some say Surak crossed this expanse when the hot blood of battle still flowed green. With logic, he cooled it."

Archer eyed the Vulcan sage skeptically. "Do you really believe that happened?" _After all, _he thought, _if the blood of the battle was green, why would the battle site become pink?_

Arev replied with a curious gaze of his own. "Does it matter?" he asked sharply. "If a hand points to a certain truth, does the physical nature of the hand impact the validity of the truth to which it points? Is truth so weak that it depends upon physical proof?"

T'Pol rescued the captain. "The reflected heat is too hot for you," she murmured, pointing to the entrails of shimmering heat rising from the canyon's floor.

Archer unscrewed the cap on his canteen and took a swig of water. "I'll stick to the shadowed areas wherever I can," he promised, and he offered the canteen to the Vulcan.

"I won't need water for several more days," T'Pol replied.

Undeterred, Archer removed his sunglasses and offered them to her. "You'd better protect your eyes from the glare."

"My inner eyelids will protect my vision," she promised. Sensing his confusion, she looked at the captain with the air of a patient teacher. "My species evolved in this environment. I am well-adapted to survive in it."

Frustrated for the second time in a minute, Archer stopped talking and followed their guide down a ravine to the distant floor of the canyon.

...

_Damn Vulcans._

_Damn Vulcans._

_Damn Vulcans._

The mantra helped push Archer along as he struggled behind T'Pol and Arev. His two companions were walking straight and tall, pushing their way across the plain of sand with nary a pause; the captain, pulling up the distant rear, felt himself staggering each step of the way. The hot sand, the hot sun, the heat from above and the heat from below, the non-existent breeze that only brought more stifling heat…

Patiently, Arev pulled to a halt and turned to face Archer, offering a brief pause of respite. "How long have you tried to understand Vulcan logic?" Arev asked curiously.

"Ever since I met T'Pol," Archer replied quite honestly. "When I first met her, I couldn't understand a damn thing she did, so I figured it was time for me to do some learning."

"Very well, student of Surak," Arev replied, nodding. "Who said, '_The mind is the guide, but reason is the teacher. Entrust yourself to this pair of friends, reason and mind, and no one will be victorious over you. Let holy reason become a torch in your mind, burning the wood which is the whole of sin. Cast out the animal nature which is within you, and do not allow base thought to enter you. For many think that they have reason, but if you look at them attentively, their speech is animalistic._'?"

"I'm new at this," Archer replied, doing his best to deflect the question. "You tell me."

Arev nodded tolerantly. "Something more basic then," he replied. "What is _Kiri-kin-tha_'s First Law of Metaphysics?"

This one threw the captain even more. "I'm familiar with Newton's First Law of Motion," he replied, figuring that his best hope was to go on the offensive. "I imagine they're pretty much the same."

Arev almost snorted. "You haven't been truthful about your presence here," he answered in noticeable understatement. His words caused T'Pol to immediately stiffen.

Archer waited a second before responding. "Have you?"

"Vulcans do not lie," Arev retorted. His eyes burned at the human.

"I've dealt with the High Command," Archer countered. "Vulcans can lie and cheat with the best of them." As soon as the words were out, Archer cringed internally; it would do them no good to drive away their guide.

"The High Command does not follow Surak's true path," the sage stated in response. "No wonder you humans are their allies; you think alike." As Arev turned his back and resumed his pace, Archer fell in behind, having no retort to give; the words stung deeply, ever more so for their accuracy.

T'Pol edged up beside the captain. "From the questions he asked you," she said softly, "I believe he is a Syrranite. And it's obvious that he doesn't trust us enough to take us to the others."

"Trust us, or trust me?" Archer replied, smiling to show that he wasn't angry. He lofted his canteen and took a dram. "We might as well tell him what he wants to know; it might be our only option for winning his assistance."

Archer watched mutely as T'Pol's head swung around, her senses leaping to full alert. A split second later, Archer too could hear the distinct rumbling coming from behind them; and he turned around to see a vision of hell racing towards them. A massive sand storm, a billowing tidal wave of dust infused with green and red bolts of electricity, was ripping down the canyon floor.

"Sand-fire!" T'Pol shouted, already struggling to be heard over the noise of the storm. "Run!"

...

Ambassador Soval had been hesitant to respond to Commander Tucker's hail; the commander was an irrational man, prone to flights of fancy, and rarely worth the time. But a sense of obligation had brought Soval down to sickbay; and now he was finding himself regretting it.

"A mindmeld?" Soval was more accustomed to humans than most of his colleagues, but this suggestion was pushing even his trained patience. "Are you seriously suggesting a mindmeld?"

"This man's our only witness!" Tucker exclaimed, pointing to the insensate patient on the medical bed. "If we can get the information that's in his head, we might be able to find who really planted that bomb!"

Soval wasn't even sure where to begin. "He's comatose, he's brain-damaged, and he's human," the ambassador pointed out, going down the laundry list of countervailing reasons. "A mind-meld is a dangerous proposition under the _best _of conditions, but under these circumstances—"

"Look, I know Phlox says there aren't a lot of Vulcans who can do this sort of thing," Tucker said, breaking in. "But you've got to know someone who could at least try!"

Soval shifted his stance slightly, trying to mask his discomfort at even discussing the subject. "Those who do have the ability won't risk their careers by publicly attempting what you suggest," he pointed out, hoping to end the conversation with that. As an agent of the High Command, it was dangerous for him to even talk about mind-melds.

Phlox came to his aid. "Most Vulcans see melding as deviant behavior," the Denobulan murmured to Tucker. "Anyone willing to engage in a meld is viewed as being…logically flawed. They're to be arrested on sight, and are sentenced to medical confinement and treatment."

"That's ridiculous!" Tucker exploded. His hands flew up in emphasis. "The stuff in that man's head could solve this crime!"

"_Evidence _will solve this crime," Soval rejoined. "Not mind-melds." Holding down his own anger, he turned to leave the room.

"_What _evidence?" Tucker blew up behind him. "The DNA on the bomb was planted!"

Soval stopped in mid-step and turned around. "You can prove that?" he asked skeptically. One eyebrow arched upward in curiosity; if the commander's allegation was provable…it would change many things.

"Yes, I can prove it," Phlox answered, re-entering the conversation. As Soval fell momentarily silent, weighing the doctor's certitude, Tucker stepped forward again.

"Ambassador, I don't know what kind of pull it takes to swipe DNA records on Vulcan," he said with suppressed vehemence. The words were soft, but they hissed out with strength. "And frankly, I don't much care. But it looks like someone tried to frame the Syrranites, and I want to get to the bottom of this."

Even Soval's trained mind struggled to process the implications and permutations. "You're suggesting a conspiracy," he whispered. "Such a feat would require the involvement of some of the highest members of the High Command."

"It's a conspiracy that already cost forty-three innocent lives," Tucker added. "Aren't they worth risking a career?"

Phlox added his own gentle two cents. "From what I understand, Ambassador, you've already voiced your own suspicions to the captain. Logic would suggest that you have other reasons to be wary."

Soval sighed heavily; the doctor's words were true. He _had _encouraged Archer to push forward with the investigation, and to not trust the High Command; and Soval had logical reasons for doing so. There were no "smoking guns," as he understood the human term; but a collection of small, isolated curiosities that together formed a dissonant pattern…Soval had been trying to avoid this day; he had used others to follow up on those suspicions, unwilling to jeopardize his own post. His career would be finished. But now it was time; _the needs of the many, after all, outweigh the needs of the one. _

"You do not need to search for someone," he answered quietly. Beneath his left eye, a muscle danced involuntarily. "I can perform the meld myself."

...

Archer and T'Pol ran madly before the forefront of the storm, their feet pounding frantically across the barren rock and sand of the valley floor. The dust was right behind them, roaring as a freight train and billowing out hot gusts of superheated air that bit at their heels; sharp bolts of electricity shot forward, striking stone with deadly discharges. Archer, running over a slight rock rise, stumbled momentarily, causing T'Pol to slow for a second; but he regained his balance, and together, they continued dashing forward.

"Over here!" Arev shouted out, his voice barely audible over the howl. He stood on the side of the ravine, near a small dark hole in the rock face. Altering their course, the two _Enterprise _crewmembers reached the cave entrance seconds later and slid in on their bellies. "Help me with this!" Arev shouted. He was quickly blocking the entrance with loose stone. "The sand-fire can still reach us!"

Several heavy rocks later, the entrance was blocked; the storm still howled outside, but inside the cavern there was only a slight electrical charge in the air. Archer fell to the floor, gasping for air.

Unphased, the sharp eyes of the Vulcan sage spotted the IDIC medallion about T'Pol's neck; in their mad dash, it had fallen free from her robes. Now, his hand darted out to grab this. "I know this," he said suddenly. For the first time, his tone carried a hint of anger. "How did you get this medallion?"

"From my mother," T'Pol replied hesitantly.

"Did T'Les willingly give it to you?" Arev demanded.

T'Pol shrank backward. "You know my mother. You're a Syrannite." The accusation rang throughout the cave.

"And you're the daughter of Vulcan who serves upon a human starship," Arev rejoined.

T'Pol twitched, but pressed on. "My mother. When did you talke with her? Is she safe?"

"Your mother is safe, daughter of Vulcan." Arev's words were terse, and he turned to face the captain. "Yes, human, I know who you are as well. The name and face of Jonathan Archer are no strangers among my people."

Archer, still regaining his breath, did his best to rise to the challenge. "Is that going to be a problem?" he demanded.

"You are responsible for the destruction of the Vulcan monastery at P'Jem," Arev replied, referring to an incident that occurred during the _Enterprise_'s first year in space. "The High Command defiled the holy sanctuary when they used it to spy on Andor. You exposed their hypocrisy; for that, human, I have tolerated your presence thus far."

Arev returned his attention to T'Pol. "Your mother is safe with the others, at the T'Kareth sanctuary. It's not far. When the storm has passed, I will guide you there."

...

Soval looked down on the comatose man before him. The security guard was breathing steadily, albeit shallow; neural monitors were strapped to his shaved head, and beneath the sickbay blanket, his immobile form could be seen, laid out in simple geometry. Soval shook his head once to clear it of surface thoughts, and focused his eyes on the man's face.

"I don't know if this has ever been attempted with a human before," he murmured, not looking up at his companions; Doctor Phlox and Commander Tucker had joined him behind the drawn curtain, but he slowly removed them from his awareness. For the meld to be successful, Soval would have to bring himself to a plain of consciousness on which the others did not exist.

As Soval focused, he concentrated his inner serenity on the man's face, sketching the contours in his mind; every dip, every peak, every curve took shape within him. His thoughts began to explore deeper, pulling back the layers that cloaked the mind within; unbidden, his hands reached out to the man's face. They began to tremble, and Soval paused, allowing the state of peacefulness to reach through his fingertips; thus silenced, they stretched forward again, finding the surface nodes just underneath the human's skin.

Soval slowed his breathing, measuring each time as his lungs filled and diaphragm contracted, followed by the soft expulsion of air. It became subtle, gradually finding the rhythm of the patient and matching it, two lives moving in unison. He closed his eyes, letting the physical realm drift away, seeking out the inner mind that was now his twin.

Irritated by the presence he felt over his shoulder, Soval opened his eyes and glared at Commander Tucker. Trip raised his hands in apology and stepped back.

Soval closed his eyes again and focused on the ray of light before him. He began murmuring the words he had learned in his childhood, in ceremonies hidden far from the eyes of the authorities. "My mind to your mind," he whispered; the words blew over him with life of their own. "Our minds are one. Our thoughts are joined." The mantra focused him, carrying him in a soft wave into the meld.

_Yes._

_I feel you._

_I know you._

_I perceive as you perceive._

_The moment of unconsciousness rides heavy on your mind._

_I see as you see._

_We are at the Embassy._

_We are at our station._

_We recognize few of these people, but their IDs check out._

_One is carrying a package._

_All packages must be inspected._

_But it's only you._

_We don't need to check you._

_Go right through._

_We recognize your face._

_We recognize your face._

_We know you._

_...  
><em>

Behind the barrier of boulders, the sand-fire raged outside, howling through the canyons with electrical fury. Inside, the air was charged, but safe; the rampage without could not reach the sanctuary within.

"How long do these sand-fire storms usually last?" Archer asked with irritated curiosity. He had little entrance in wasting several days waiting for the storm to abate.

"A day," Arev mused. "Perhaps two. I've never seen one this strong." He misunderstood the human's concern. "But we're safe here. And we're in no hurry." He knelt in front of the fire with a simple clay bowl; it was mealtime.

"Perhaps we should be," Archer offered. He, too, held a clay bowl bearing a kind of organic paste; he sniffed it skeptically.

"The High Command believes the Syrranites are responsible for bombing the Earth Embassy," T'Pol clarified. "They are concerned that more attacks are being planned." With a finger, she swept some of the paste from her bowl and placed it in her mouth.

Arev scarcely looked at her. "That's not our way." The firelight flickered across his features.

"They seem to think it is," Archer replied carefully. "They claim that you and your leader believe in a corrupted version of Surak's teachings."

Chuckling scornfully, Arev turned to T'Pol. "Did your mother tell you the story?" he asked, pointing to the medallion hanging from her neck.

T'Pol furrowed her brow, uncertain of what the sage was asking. "Of the IDIC?"

"Infinite diversity in infinite combinations." The words caught slightly on the thick paste in Arev's mouth.

Uncertain, T'Pol held out the medallion and traced the triangle with her finger. "It represents Surak's descent from Mount Selaya," she replied haltingly. Even as she spoke, T'Pol could feel the sage's displeasure.

"Mere words that are a hint of their true meaning," Arev snorted. He looked above them momentarily. "_I will speak to those who know to hear not with the ears of the body but with the ears of the mind_."

Truly curious, Archer leaned inward. "What does it really mean then?" he asked hopefully.

Arev fixed a glare on the captain. "I do not disclose the truth to those who are not ready."

"Didn't Surak return to Mount Selaya to die?" Archer pressed anyway, interested in learning more.

"He did not die on Mount Selaya," Arev replied scornfully. "But his _katra _transcended from there, before the last battle against those who marched beneath the raptor's wings. Those who wanted to return to the savage ways."

Archer took a bite of the paste as he thought, and discovered that it didn't taste half bad. "What's a _katra_?" he asked finally, deciding on his route of approach.

T'Pol offered the answer. "Syrranites claim it is the essence of a Vulcan mind," she stated, somewhat skeptically. It seemed as though the concept grated against her. "They claim that it can be transferred from the body before death, and thus transcend death."

"Yet again, only a shadow of the true meaning," Arev noted, but he did not elaborate. "Some say Surak's _katra_ has been found. That it is carried by a Syrranite, so that all those who understand may experience the essence."

Archer's mind stumbled as he tried to piece together the cryptic statements. "You mean, like a mind-meld? I thought Vulcans disapproved of that."

Arev snorted scornfully. "The ability to meld minds is a gift given to us, Captain. It is part of the heritage of every Vulcan. Why would we choose to deny ourselves of it?"

...

"A witness?" Stel's voice carried disbelief as he stared at Commander Tucker.

"The front guard recognized the person who brought in the bomb," Trip clarified. With the success of the meld, they were obligated to inform the High Command of their findings; as such, he had invited V'Las to join himself, Phlox, and Soval in the _Enterprise _conference room. V'Las had come with Stel…unavoidable, perhaps, but Trip chose to view it as an opportunity; watching Stel's response may provide a clue.

"Yes, the Syrranite woman," Stel confirmed smoothly. "T'Pau."

"No." Soval's voice, soft and disappointed, hung heavy in the room. "It was you, Stel."

A split second went by before V'Las responded. "That's impossible!" he asserted, visibly clenching his teeth. "We already know that it was T'Pau!"

"I would like to interrogate this witness myself," Stel stated, his own calmness contrasting with that of the Chief Administrator. Stel had barely flinched when the accusation was made.

"You're not getting anywhere near him!" Trip rejoined.

V'Las, his own reaction now quashed, re-entered the conversation. "Perhaps I could speak to the guard," he suggested.

"I'm afraid he's in no condition to be questioned," Phlox countered, speaking for the first time. His objection was met by V'Las' raised brows, and the doctor fidgeted for a moment. "He's in a coma," Phlox finally clarified.

"Yet you claim that he provided an eyewitness account." V'Las' tone transmuted into dry sarcasm. "I wonder how that is possible."

Additional seconds went by as the question hung in the air; no one wanted to answer, but an answer was necessary. Unwilling, Trip forged ahead. "We accessed his memories through a mind-meld," he admitted.

"Telepathic evidence is inadmissible," Stel retorted instantly.

V'Las nearly exploded. "It's not evidence at all!" He turned to glare at Soval, with suspicion written across his face. "You allowed this distasteful act to take place, Ambassador?" V'Las demanded angrily.

_This is it_, Soval reminded himself. "I performed the act," he replied. With the words out, he felt strangely at peace.

V'Las' gaze became poisonous. "You've shamed Vulcan and yourself with perversions, Soval." His bellicose tones filled the room. "The law leaves me no recourse. You'll be summoned to appear before the High Command to account for your actions!" Furiously, V'Las turned and left the room, Stel right behind.

It took Trip a moment to realize that the accusation against Stel had been brushed aside completely.

...

"How did the High Command become so powerful?" Archer asked between measured sips of water. The cavern was cooler than the desert outside, but the heat was still more than the human body was designed to withstand; near-constant doses of the clear liquid were necessary to maintain himself. "I suppose it was logical."

Arev snorted gently. "That's what the High Command would claim. By centralizing all power in their hands, administration becomes more efficient. No, Captain," Arev continued between bites of the paste. "It is spurious logic."

Not understanding in the least, Archer nodded anyway.

"At one time," Arev went on, "the High Command was only responsible for the exploration of space."

"I've been told that Vulcans have never been explorers," Archer countered.

"I think you've been told many things about us that aren't true," Arev retorted. The fire crackled before him. "Vulcan ships used to travel the quadrant. But then V'Las and his kind came to power, warning about the horrible dangers that lurked behind every comet and every asteroid. They pushed Vulcan society into retrenchment; they convinced our people to hide away at home, for it is not safe 'out there.'"

Archer understood better this time. "And they convinced Vulcan that the best way to stay safe was to aggregate power in the hands of the High Command."

Arev raised a solitary brow. "You sound familiar with the tactic."

"Human society is not immune from it either," Archer said softly. But it had also helped lead Earth into the utter destruction of the Final World War.

A sharp crack, followed by a showering explosion of pebbles, broke off the conversation. The harsh winds outside roared into the cavern through the shattered barricades, instantly cloaking the interior in a sea of grit. "Hurry!" Arev shouted, finding his way by memory. "Reseal the entrance!"

Stumbling together, Archer and Arev located a large rock and hoisted it up, blockading only a portion of the hole; the wind and grit continued to tear inward with a howl that threatened all hearing. In the midst of the storm, a bolt of blue lightning shot in; striking T'Pol, it lifted her up and slammed her to the ground. Desperately, Archer turned and ran to T'Pol.

Arev's words were barely audible. "The storm is gaining strength!" he shouted from the entrance. His body was low, behind the remaining rock for shelter, but his efforts were futile; another lightning blast struck Arev, throwing him backwards.

Archer scrambled to the sage and rolled the Vulcan over, checking for injuries. Cuts and contusions were legion, but far more alarming were the burst capillaries underneath every centimeter of Arev's skin; severe electromagnetic shock had ripped through.

"Arev," Archer whispered, knowing not why he did; he recognized that the sage was beyond saving, and would momentarily be beyond life. Some inner sense pressed upon him the solemnity of the Vulcan's passing.

Arev crumpled over as he hacked violently, words trying to form in his mouth. "You must carry it to the sanctuary," he rasped.

"Carry what?" Archer wasn't sure if he had even heard the words correctly.

In reply, the dying sage reached one hand up to the human's face. The shock was immediate; there was no time to be gentle; and as Arev began whispering, Archer felt his mind rend in two.

...

"You can't go back!" Trip argued vehemently. He and Soval were walking abreast down the corridor towards the airlock; the Vulcan ambassador had, contrary to Trip's self-identified wisdom, decided to voluntarily turn himself over to the High Command. But Trip wasn't giving up.

"I'm not a fool, Commander," Soval replied patiently. During his three decades on Earth, Soval had often heard humans refer to the serenity that follows the making of a weighty decision. He had placed little stock in the notion, but now found himself experiencing the phenomenon. "I know that V'Las was involved with the attack on your Embassy, and that he's responsible for blaming it on the Syrranites."

Trip's head rotated in frustration. "Then why go back?" the engineer demanded, not seeing any sense in the action. "You don't owe V'Las your loyalty!"

"This isn't about loyalty, Commander." Soval's words became curt in warning. "It's the only chance I'll have to reach the rest of the High Command."

"What if—" Trip paused while the airlock door opened. "What if they're all in on it?"

With expected grace, Soval glided into the airlock. "I know of at least one who isn't, Commander. And as for the others, I can only trust my logic."

"This is—" Trip bit his lip before the wrong words came out. "Listen, Ambassador, if you really want humans and Vulcans to work together someday, you might start thinking about trusting us!"

Soval replied with a silent expression of curiosity. It hung between the two men for several seconds, until the ambassador raised his right hand. "Peace and long life, Commander."

The airlock door closed between them.

...

Before his body even responded, Archer experienced a moment of waking consciousness. It was as though every nerve in his body was newly alive; his conscious mind spread out, flowing to the tips of every limb, permeating throughout his body. He could feel the heat coming through his skin; it warmed him, bringing with it the gift of renewed life.

A moment later, a wet cloth dabbed at his forehead, bringing him fully awake.

The pain hit immediately; every muscle ached in ways unimaginable, and Archer's head felt like a swollen ball of cotton. Concentration was feverishly hard; mucky matter blocked every passageway like molasses, preventing neurons from firing in the only manner they knew. It took several seconds of prolonged effort to finally ease open his eyelids, revealing the backlit form of T'Pol's head hovering over him.

"T'Pol," Archer croaked. His voice was barely audible, but a thought struck him hard. "Arev?"

Gently, T'Pol helped the captain shift his head. Off to the side, Archer saw the unmistakable form of their Vulcan guide; it was unmoving. Dead.

"Are you injured?" T'Pol asked, continuing to wipe the dust away from the captain's face. "There is little sign of external injury."

Archer grunted and lifted his torso. "I'm fine," he insisted, his arms supporting him from behind. "I was just knocked out. Although..." Grimacing, Archer felt his left cheek, noticing a substantial bruise in formation. "This may sound odd, but I think he punched me."

"That does sound odd," T'Pol acknowledged. She directed her gaze to the cavern opening; through it, the bright light of the desert could be seen. "The storm is over. We must get moving—the patrol craft are flying again. It's dangerous to stay here."

Archer looked back at the dead form of Arev. "He said we weren't far from the T'Kareth Sanctuary. Maybe we can find it on our own."

"After we bury him," T'Pol added, and Archer nodded in agreement.

...

Hours later, the desert sky had grown dark with the low glow of night; the rich tans and browns of daytime became the shadowed grays of the late hours, and overhead, endless stars twinkled in pinpricks of light.

Two of the stars, however, moved quickly. "Patrol craft," Archer mentioned, pointing up to the glowing vapor trails overhead. From their vantage point high atop a ridge, the contrails were easy to see. "They're following a grid search pattern. No sensors, but they can still make visual contact. We should find cover before the sun comes up."

T'Pol's head turned as she followed the flight overhead. "We should be able to find a more protected cave near the floor of the gully."

Instead, Archer pointed into the darkness. "That way," he said with certainty.

T'Pol peered in the indicated direction, but could discern nothing of significance. "There's nothing there," she replied skeptically.

"That's where the Syrranites are," Archer answered, and unwavering, he set downward towards the gully.

T'Pol had to half-jog to keep up. "How do you know?" she demanded, but the captain didn't answer.

...

As the two comrades reached the bottom of the gully, Archer finally came to a stop. He was unwinded, and unstrained; nonetheless, the perplexed Vulcan pulled out a canteen and held it up for him.

Focused on the alien landscape before them, Archer barely noticed. "I'm good for a few more days," he said absently, waving off the water.

"Captain, you're not Vulcan," T'Pol replied pointedly, hoisting the water sac higher.

"Right." His attention still focused elsewhere, Archer slowly took the canteen and held it up, allowing a long draught to pour into his mouth. That task complete, he returned to surveying the gray rocks around them; in the night, the landscape reminded him of Earth's moon. "Over there," he said suddenly, pointing to a rock face.

"Captain, that won't—" T'Pol paused as she moved quickly to follow. "That won't help us." She was no longer certain that Archer was feeling fine.

Archer walked straight through the rock face. It shimmered and flickered about him as he entered, and promptly restored the illusion of solid stone. The patrol craft chose that moment to fly overhead; and T'Pol, by now completely confused, decided to follow her captain into the rock.

They found themselves in a large cavern. At one time, it had undoubtedly been used for something; it was carved out in a rough circle, some ten meters in diameter. In the center, a sculpted pillar rose from the floor to the ceiling, and the floor itself was tiled with carefully-crafted designs.

"Don't resist," Archer whispered.

Blades were placed at their necks.

...

_Quote paraphrased from Spock (Star Trek VI)_


	7. Chapter 6

—**SHEHKUH****—**

"Are you so arrogant as to believe that you are the greatest Power in the universe?"

-The Hidden _Kir'Shara _of Surak

...

_So this is it_, Soval thought as he stepped into the chambers of the High Command. Before him, the five administrators sat on an elevated platform, half-hidden behind the thickened bench made of aged resin. To either side, ceremonial guards stood alertly, holding their _lirpas _immobile.

_This is how it will end_. The thought was still foreign to him; recent events had passed so quickly. Even his highly-trained mind had to race to keep up; only a few days ago, he had been Vulcan's ambassador to Earth and a well-respected elder in the upper tiers of the High Command. Few would have dared challenge him in such a manner.

But he had harbored a secret, one that outweighed all of his accomplishments. For all the good he had done on behalf of mother Vulcan, his decades of devoted service and sacrifice, the legions of diplomats who had learned under his tutelage, all paled in comparison to a fluke circumstance of his birth.

He had been born with his telepathic abilities awoken.

Even the orthodox condemnations of mind-melding had not erased the knowledge of it from Vulcan memory; Vulcan children grew up knowing that a select number of their kind possessed the ability. It could not be relegated to the status of ancient myth, so instead it was condemned, labeled as a perversion, a dark and evil ritual that only the sickest of the sick would engage in.

But despite those condemnations, memories of the ancient ways, the true ways of Surak, still lived on under cloak of secrecy, passed from teacher to student in hidden rooms and distant caves. In such a manner, the flame of reason was preserved and kept alive across the generations, withstanding the efforts of the orthodoxy to stamp it out; teacher to student, Vulcan to Vulcan, mind to mind.

Soval's parents were no fans of the orthodox ways; his father had often described them as being "form devoid of meaning, shape devoid of substance." So when they realized that their young son bore the conscious heritage, they arranged through friends and intermediaries to place him in training with the ancient adepts. Under the shroud of the Forge, he met with them often in his youth, learning of the awesome ability and responsibility that was now his.

Soval, like many others of his kind, returned to proper society, masquerading as an orthodox Vulcan. His charge, his highest charge, was protecting the Vulcan people from the worst excesses of the High Command; to preserve the sliver of space in which the way of Surak survived, despite the depredations of its enemies. And so he had done, for many years, without revealing his own true status of being a member of the awakened.

So why had he chosen to reveal himself? Even his supremely-logical mind struggled to answer the question. Of course there was some logic to it; ending the false accusation and protecting the fledging Syrranite community was a vital accomplishment. So, too, was the sense of justice that pervaded the action, and the opportunity to finally expose the duplicity of the High Command.

But was that really why? Or had he simply, after a century and a half, grown tired of harboring such a secret, something that he should not have had to keep secret at all? There was an undeniable cathartic sensation when he finally voiced the words and stepped forward into the light of day, a strength and vitality that the High Command could not take away. _Too many secrets_, he thought, the phrase applying not just to himself, but all of Vulcan. It was a society that had become steeped in secrets, circle after circle, layer after layer, until secrecy had become the first instinct of all.

And now, Vulcan was paying the price for centuries of denial and obfuscation. Soval did not know just what V'Las' endgame was; he did not know the ultimate purpose of this scheming and these cover-ups. But Soval did know that something was rotten; something big was taking place. Too many parts were in action, the movements accelerating along a pre-ordained path. Something was in motion, something that Vulcan would bear the brunt of.

V'Las, sitting in the center of the bench, his chair raised above the others, glared down at Soval. "Before we announce our decision, is there anything you wish to say?" he demanded, making clear one thing: Soval's only hope was to plead for mercy.

And the ambassador was not going to apologize for doing the right thing. "My actions were taken in the best interest of Vulcan," he stated formally. The appellation, 'and the High Command,' was left conspicuously unsaid.

V'Las snorted. "Keeping secrets from us is in our own best interest?" he replied, disbelievingly.

Soval recognized that V'Las, for all his intelligence, would never understand. The chief administrator could make the transports run on time; but when it came to matters of the mind, his foe was woefully unaware. "Had I revealed my abilities as a melder, my years of service would not have been possible," the ambassador stated, choosing to take a side route.

A different administrator, Soketh, leaned forward. "Your accomplishments have been noteworthy," Soketh confirmed. "You have done Vulcan—and the High Command—great service."

V'Las shot Soketh an angry star. "They don't justify deception."

"Deception has never been a stranger to this room," Soval shot back.

V'Las' eyes widened under the weight of the blow. "I caution you—"

And thus, Soval chose to finally throw all caution away. "It was one of our own members who was responsible for bombing the Earth Embassy," he retorted forcefully. "An act we then sought to blame on the Syrranites—to give us an excuse to launch a military campaign against them."

"That assessment is incorrect," V'Las snarled. "We gave your so-called 'evidence' evidence a chance and investigated Stel thoroughly. Our investigation cleared him."

"I find that difficult to accept," Soval quipped.

"The evidence against the Syrranites is irrefutable!" V'Las rejoined. "Syrranites were responsible for that despicable act of terrorism, and they'll be dealt with accordingly. But this tribunal is about _you_, Soval. Regarding the matter at hand, your position is terminated immediately."

_That is nothing more than I expected, _Soval thought.

"You're to surrender all classified materials to the Security Directorate before leaving," V'Las continued. "I remind you that your loyalty oath is still in effect. A violation of that oath—"

"I'm aware of the penalty," Soval replied blandly.

"Good." The Chief Administrator's eyes still burned. "Is there anything else you'd like to say?"

"There's a great deal that needs to be said, Administrator," Soval answered mildly, "but no one's willing to listen."

V'Las' glare tightened with tension. "This tribunal has opted to not refer your case for criminal prosecution," he hissed. "I suggest that you do not push us into reconsidering that decision."

...

The caverns carved into the living rock were remarkably spacious to the eyes of Jonathan Archer. It was evident that much work had been performed over the centuries, changing what once had been narrow tunnels and isolated crevasses into an underground complex, extending deep within the upthrust rock; the work, done by hand, was the careful creation of lifetimes spent in calm contemplation in the sanctuary.

The newcomers were led into a central passageway. Spaced two meters wide and over three high, it was bright and airy; a glow of light infused the entire tunnel, coming from behind a bend ahead of them. The air was cool, more damp than that of the desert floor, and it possessed an aroma rich in a hundred unknown scents.

Archer and T'Pol, guided forward by their captors, stepped up into the passage from the side, where a low doorway entered a dark tunnel out to the hidden entrance of the sanctuary. Climbing up the well-worn stone steps, coming into the lightness, Archer found himself stunned by the effect; the passage, a delicate blend of natural beauty and careful stonework, was designed with the graceful curves of the natural world in mind.

Before he could think too long, a young Vulcan woman emerged from the bend, followed by several others. Her youth was apparent; her stature was slim and short, but she seemed to radiate a sense of purpose that spread throughout the chamber, pushing into every nook and crevice. Her clothes were battered, but strong; and her hair hung down, in defiance of the sharp trims of the world outside.

Archer recognized her. This was the woman he was hunting—the woman he believed to be responsible for the Embassy bombing.

"Who are you?" T'Pau demanded, looking directly into the faces of the newcomers. Her words were strong, and her poise self-assured.

"I'm Jonathan Archer," the captain replied carefully, taking his time.

T'Pau nodded in recognition. "Captain of the Earth vessel," she noted. She fastened a cold gaze on Archer's companion. "And you must be his Vulcan. T'Pol."

Archer's reply cut into the chilliness. "She is my first officer. And my teacher."

"Indeed." The single word gave no indication of T'Pau's reticence. "You are a long way from Earth, Captain, and a long way from your ship. Why are you in the Forge? And without a proper guide?"

Archer blinked twice, and chose—for the moment—to ignore the frost between the two Vulcan women. "I'm here to find the person who bombed the Earth Embassy," he stated, his words tinged with anger. "The terrorist who killed dozens of people, some of them Vulcan."

"I am aware of the accusations against me," T'Pau replied. The young woman didn't waver. "I had nothing to do with the destruction of your Embassy, Captain."

"You left your DNA on the bomb!" Archer retorted, straining forward. Firm hands gripped him from behind, holding him with steel resolve.

T'Pau's defiance was nearly palpable. "I haven't left this desert for two years, Captain. What does that tell you about your evidence?"

"It tells me that you're lying!" Archer rejoined. Another strong hand fell on his shoulder, halting his fleeting forward movement.

"True Vulcans do not lie," T'Pau hissed back.

Archer's anger continued to push him forward against the resolute grip of his escorts. "And humans don't sit back and do nothing while our people are attacked!"

"No, Captain!" T'Pau's own anger flared briefly. "You traverse vast wastelands based on false information, counting on improbable sequences of luck and fortunate to save you!" She stepped forward to face Archer eye-to-eye. "The High Command has played you for a fool, Captain, but I would have expected no less."

As the captain was formulating his answer, another Vulcan, this one an elder woman, stepped forward from around the bend. T'Pol's head shot around, and her eyes lit up in familiarity, but her tone remained steady. "Mother," T'Pol said in formal acknowledgement.

"It is agreeable to see you," T'Les replied as she halted a meter or so in front of her daughter. Vulcan social customs abhorred close physical contact.

"We have a great deal to talk about," T'Pol stated tightly.

T'Les nodded in agreement. "And so we shall," she said calmly.

The exchange earned her a directed glare from T'Pau. "You told them where to find us!" the younger woman hissed in reprobation.

T'Les returned the gaze. "Yes," she replied.

Archer, observing with interest, was almost caught off-balance when the questioning returned to him. "Is there anyone else with you?" T'Pau demanded.

"No," Archer answered. "We came by ourselves."

T'Pau examined the captain's face with a penetrating stare. "You claim to have crossed the Forge by yourselves?" she asked, the suspicion evident.

T'Pol fidgeted slightly before responding. "We met a sage. He guided us, helped us find shelter."

T'Pau's eyes narrowed. "Who was this sage?"

"We, ah…" Archer glanced at T'Pol before continuing. "We think he was a Syrranite. He said his name was Arev."

"He was struck down by an electrical charge in a sand-fire storm," T'Pol added. "He didn't make it." A scarcely-audible wave of gasps could be heard from the assembled Vulcans.

"He's dead?" T'Pau's lips drew tight. "Are you certain his name was Arev?"

"Yes," Archer answered hesitantly. He was uncertain was the significance was. "At least, that's what he told us."

T'Pau's eyes fell to the floor, and the air of defiance seemed to deflate inside her. "His true name was Syrran," she said softly. "He was our teacher."

...

Under the muted direction of T'Pau, the escorts pulled the newcomers aside and directed them down a side tunnel. This one, as well, was open and airy; the glow of light infused it with warmth, and Archer began to make out more of the details. The curving corridors seemed to connect a number of semicircular chambers, each one larger than the bridge of the _Enterprise_; a passing glance inside revealed little. Additional corridors branched out from the main artery, set slightly higher or lower than the central branch; stairs carved in the sandstone compensated for the difference, and revealed centuries of wear that smoothed the stone to a fine polish.

The newcomers were directed into a semicircular apse. It appeared to be a central anteroom; the central floor was shaped in a shallow depression, and the rock ceiling was carved in a bewildering array of loops and swirls that Archer could not hope to follow. Along the outer curve, sets of stone pillars flanked doorways that led beyond. Flaming torches adorned the pillars, channeling smoke outward in a series of hidden chimneys.

With few words spoken, Archer and T'Pol were placed in one of these rooms, and a door made of petrified wood was shut behind them. Despite its momentary use, Archer had the feeling that the room was not intended as a jail cell; rather, it seemed to be a cell of the monastic variety, a barren room for the sages to meditate in or perhaps reside in. This cell had a single central table, less than a meter in diameter and carved from a stone plug, which held a lighted candle.

As the door locked shut behind them and the escorts left eyesight, Archer finally allowed himself to collapse to the floor. His head was pounding, his heart was racing, his muscles weak and disjointed; he couldn't focus, he couldn't think, he couldn't walk. Sheer willpower had endured this far, but every ounce of his being was exhausted.

"Captain!" T'Pol cried out in alarm, and ran to his side. Grasping him by the torso, she tried to roll him over onto his back. "Captain, are you all right?"

"I'm okay," Archer gasped, sucking for air. The pulsating flashes behind his eyes prevented him from seeing his first officer. "I just need a moment."

"Are you certain, Captain?" T'Pol asked, concerned. She had seen no indication of the captain's troubles.

Archer nodded affirmatively. "It's—it's nothing," he responded. "Just a bad migraine."

"Captain, even I know that it's not just a bad migraine," T'Pol replied with faint umbrage. "When did this start?"

"Back at—" Archer thought carefully. "Back in the cave, right before Arev died. I was lying on the ground, and—and he grabbed me. He put his fingers on my face." Archer shook his head slowly, as if trying to clean out the cobwebs. "I felt something inside my head."

"Do you think he was trying to meld with you?" The notion was repulsive to T'Pol, but a forced mind-meld would explain the captain's current malady.

"I don't know," Archer answered honestly. "But ever since…I haven't felt like myself."

...

Around another bend rested the main chamber of the retreat, the center of activity for the occupants of the sanctuary. It was roughly circular, nearly five meters tall; the central floor, down on the first level, was tiled over with closely-fit sandstone. The second level consisted of a walkway around the circumference, which also was tiled; stone and mortar walls lined the supporting wall between, and doorways periodically interrupted the smooth finish. The upper tier also possessed a number of departing tunnels, but these were prefaced with far more elaborate columns. Hundreds of candles were spread throughout the room, keeping it well-lit.

The two Syrranite women, T'Pau and T'Les, were gathered along the upper tier; stone benches extruded, providing a ready-made alcove for quiet conversation, and the two had much to discuss.

"You put us all in danger," T'Pau hissed. Her voice was low and did not carry; only the sensitive hearing of her colleague could pick it up. "What if they'd been followed? Where was the logic in this action?"

"I only wanted her to know I was safe," T'Les replied apologetically. "When it comes to my daughter…my logic is sometimes weak."

"You could have accomplished that without revealing our location," T'Pau retorted. It was an odd juxtaposition, particularly in a society that prized its elders so strongly; the young woman, barely an adult, unabashedly upbraiding the older, but T'Pau's air of strength made it seem natural.

"I can't change what I've done," T'Les answered honestly. "But my daughter doesn't deserve imprisonment. I'd like to have her released." It was implicitly acknowledged that the human captain would remain captive.

"Once we've confirmed her story," T'Pau replied. "We can't take the chance until then."

"My daughter wouldn't lie," T'Les objected.

T'Pau's gaze was remarkably serene. "She's not merely your daughter, T'Les. She used to work for the High Command—that alone calls her ability for veracity into question. And now she's a member of Starfleet, consorting with humans…I have no other logical options. T'Pol must remain where she is until I'm satisfied that she can be trusted."

T'Les looked aside for a moment to hide her look of pain in the shadows, but she did not object.

"Besides," T'Pau added, "your daughter and the human are the least of our worries now."

T'Les bobbed her head slightly. "If Syrran is truly dead, then everything we've worked for is gone."

...

_There is a human saying_, Soval reflected as he returned to the _Enterprise._ A short walk through the ship brought him to the captain's ready room, and he waited outside for permission to enter. _To lose the battle, but win the war. V'Las may have won the battle…but now I am free to wage the war_.

The doors _whooshed _open before him, and Soval entered the small room; he was nearly knocked over by the waves of anger emanating from the acting captain, one Charles Emerson Tucker III, aka "Trip."

"I can't believe they threw you out!" Trip shouted before the doors had even closed. He was on his feet, pacing the room frenetically, his hands flung above his head. "Just because you helped us?"

"I knew the risks," Soval stated patiently. Decades of training asserted themselves, holding his temperament steady. "Be assured that I choose this course of action."

"There's got to be some way to fight this!" Trip demanded. "Isn't there something—an appeal process, a hearing, something?"

"To what point, Commander?" Soval answered sharply. "V'Las is not known for showing mercy to his opponents. And far too much of the High Command does his biding."

Trip was far from satisfied. "Who the hell put him in charge, anyway?" he snarled. "Doesn't anyone outrank him?"

"Our society rewards merit," Soval replied reflexively. "V'Las has demonstrated a singular talent for governing. To place such constraints on him would be…inefficient, and thus illogical."

"Illogical?" Trip nearly blew his top. "Pardon me, Ambassador, but that's an extremely narrow view of logic!"

"There are others on Vulcan who feel the same way," Soval replied mildly. "But the route to challenging V'Las must take a detour."

Trip was uncertain as to the ambassador's insinuation. "What do you mean?"

"V'Las believes that the Syrranites are subversives," Soval explained. "He is determined to wipe out them out."

"I see," Trip said haltingly.

" He's particularly intent on destroying their encampment in the Forge. It is imperative that the Syrranite movement be preserved."

"The captain and T'Pol are down there," Trip responded, his mind following a different track of alarm.

"Have you been able to establish contact with either of them?"

"No."

Soval nodded patiently. "Then our next step must be to reach them and warn them. They are in grave danger."

...

Within hours, one of the acolytes returned to the prison cell. With no words and a guttural thrust of his arm, he indicated for T'Pol to accompany him; the captain, finally asleep, would remain behind. Masking her objections, T'Pol rose and followed the escort.

She was taken into one of the many rooms that made up the sanctuary. Upon entering, T'Pol saw the form of her mother sitting on a stone bench, and the escort guided T'Pol in that direction.

T'Les looked up as her daughter arrived, but waited for the escort to step away discreetly. "You must have questions for me," T'Les spoke finally, pushing into the gulf between the two.

T'Pol kept her eyes directed to the side. "I can't understand how you could join these people." The iciness of her words shot across the small space.

T'Les paused as she contemplated her best response. "I've been growing disillusioned with Vulcan society for some time," she admitted forthrightly. Her tone was neither combative nor regretful. "First it was little things, odd pieces of illogic that the orthodox teachings papered over, but I accepted the judgment that it was my own reason that was weak."

T'Pol didn't reply.

"But I couldn't get rid of those kernels of doubt," T'Les added, taking the next step in the story. "And as they grew, I explored deeper, and discovered that the entire edifice of the orthodox teachings are based on half-truths and contradictions of reason. I found that I could no longer, in good conscience, proclaim myself to be a good conventional Vulcan…and when I was forced to resign from the Academy, there was nothing holding me back any longer."

"And this is where you came for answers?" T'Pol rejoined, still refusing to make eye contact.

The tone bit deep, but T'Les did her best to accept it. "Yes, and here I found those answers," she stated strongly. "The Syrranites believe that Vulcan has strayed from the teachings of Surak. T'Pol," she said pleadingly, looking at her daughter's altered gaze. "Even you must see that to be true. Consider what the High Command has done; the suppression of dissent, the stripping of liberties, the retrenchment from exploration. And you were personally involved in revealing the listening post at P'Jem."

T'Pol let her distant stare falter, and finally looked her mother in the face. "You could have told me all this when I came to visit."

"The High Command had already begun to hunt down suspected Syrranites," T'Les replied. "I was afraid I would be next, and I wanted to keep you out of it."

"I don't want your apologies, Mother." T'Pol kept her shoulders firm. "I want you to come back with me."

"And do what?" T'Les asked curiously. "Turn myself over to the High Command? I can't do that. I can no longer accept their authority."

"But, Mother—" T'Pol tripped over the word, but then caught herself. "If you wanted to keep me out of it, why did you give me that map? You must have known that I'd try to find you."

T'Les sighed softly. "I thought, if you came here and saw what we were doing—"

"That I'd understand?" T'Pol retorted coldly. "That I'd join you?"

T'Les' gaze fell. "I held out that hope, yes. It's possible I was being foolish."

"Extremely," T'Pol answered.

...

Jonathan Archer rolled over and dreamed.

He dreamed he was in the sanctuary, but he was not imprisoned in a cell. It was open and airy; to one side of him, windows larger than he opened to the world outside, letting in the brilliant glare of Nevasa. Several newly-carved pillars helped support the ceiling, each one delicately etched with a beautiful array of symbols still fresh in the stone. The rock underfoot was still rough, yet to be trodden by centuries of acolytes.

He dreamed he was in the sanctuary, looking out the windows at the world beyond. The bright warmth died; Vulcan was cloaked in dense, dark smoke and ash that hung above the horizon like a malevolent blanket, killing the world beneath. Flashes of light and explosions rattled across the landscape, testimony to the ferocity of the wars from which none could survive.

He dreamed that he was in the sanctuary, hearing a voice appear beside him. It began in polyphonic tones before settling into an even, firm tenor; the sound of the voice was manifold. "War is taking its toll," it said. A heavy weight permeated the voice. "Vulcan is tearing itself apart." He was suddenly aware of the presence beside him.

He dreamed he was in the sanctuary, and his companion was pointing out into the world beyond. "My soul is overwhelmed with sorrow to the point of death," the elder Vulcan said. Pain swirled deep in the sage's eyes. "Stay here and keep watch with me." And as Jonathan did so, he saw a massive flash of light almost over the horizon; a thick cloud of black smoke pillared upwards before blossoming outward in the shape of a mushroom. Seconds later, the shockwave hit, and Archer staggered to keep his footing.

He dreamed he was in the sanctuary, talking to the sage. "Who are you?" Jonathan asked, and the Vulcan raised a single brow.

"You know who I am, Captain," the sage replied.

He dreamed he was in the sanctuary, listening, perceiving, as the sage went on. "So much death," the Vulcan continued, the tones still resonant. "Hard to believe that this will herald the Age of Awakening. I bring peace, but war has come because of me."

He dreamed he was in the sanctuary, seeking to understand the meaning of the sage. "The Awakening was eighteen hundred years ago," Jonathan noted, trying to place the elements in cohesive structure. "But this doesn't feel like a dream."

He dreamed he was in the sanctuary, and the sage was eyeing him curiously. "Why do you hide from the truth?" the Vulcan asked without scorn. "I am the one whom you have reflected upon, but you honor me while you doubt me." The sage shook his head. "The Vulcan culture you've come to know is not the one I helped to create. Those who confess me, deny me; and those who know me are ignorant of me. Their knowledge wallows in ignorance."

He dreamed he was in the sanctuary, seeking an answer. "Just before Syrran died," Jonathan said, "he did something to me. It felt like he put something in my head." Jonathan cringed with the fresh sensation of the memory.

He dreamed he was the sanctuary, the light entering his mind. "Syrran chose you, Jonathan," the sage answered. He held up his hands to cut off the captain's objections. "You don't trust Vulcans. And, given your experiences with them, I can't say I blame you. But do not look upon me on the dung-heap nor cast me out, and you will find me. You will come to understand why you must be the chalice."

He dreamed he was in the sanctuary, his mind heavy with confusion. "Do not fight what's been given to you, Jonathan," the sage added. "Open your mind and the way will become clear."

...

Deep within the belly of the Government Center of Shi'Kahr resided a command center; deeply insulated and protected to withstand any assault from outside, and wired to every command and control circuit at Vulcan's disposal, it served as the base for military operations; and it was here that the High Command was gathered around a three-dimensional holographic map of the Forge.

"We've pinpointed their sanctuary near the northeastern border of the Forge," V'Las stated as he pointed to the location. It was in the lip of the central desert plane, buried in the foothills of the great mountain ranges that surrounded and protected the wasteland.

"How accurate is this information?" Soketh asked doubtfully, seeking to temper the Chief Administrator's rush to battle.

"It's accurate enough," V'Las snapped back. "It's based on data collected by our search patrols. They've been conducting missions for several days."

"It's certainly accurate enough to launch an attack," Narvel added smoothly.

V'Las looked inordinately proud. "We're going to bombard the camp with photonic weapons," he announced.

Soketh's head swiveled in shock. "Our goal isn't to exterminate these people!" he exclaimed. His own control slipped momentarily before he re-established it.

V'Las stared at his alleged colleague. "Our _goal _is protect Vulcan," he said bitingly. "These people are subversives, who would destroy our way of life and hand our world over to the Andorians! Do you really suggest that we stand by and do nothing?"

"They're in the deep desert!" Soketh replied in astonishment. "What possible harm could they do us?"

"They've already destroyed an embassy," V'Las shot back. "They've demonstrated the ability to attack us from their safe havens in the Forge. To protect Vulcan, we must strike them where they live!"

Soketh wasn't out of arguments that easily. "They have to leave the Forge eventually," he pointed out. "When they do, we can apprehend them with little or no loss of life."

"And how many Vulcans must die in the meantime?" Narvel responded. "Every day that we delay, we place Vulcan lives in danger. No, we must strike _now, _with one decisive thrust. We can cripple their little insurgency, perhaps end it."

"That may be," Soketh protested, "but a surgical strike could minimize the loss of life—"

"The magnetic anomalies make a precision attack impossible," V'Las answered harshly. "Saturation bombing is the only way. Preparations will begin immediately.

As V'Las turned to leave the room, Soketh made one final effort. "Wait!" he shouted, throwing decorum away.

V'Las stared angrily at the other Vulcan. "The decision has been made, Minister. This is now a matter for the Security Directorate, which is under _my _authority."

As V'Las disappeared, Soketh was left behind, feeling somewhat bewildered.

...


	8. Chapter 7

—**STEHKUH****—**

"A pleasure-loving man is useless in everything."

-The Hidden _Kir'Shara _of Surak

...

In the light of the sun, everything seemed clearer.

The bizarre dream—Archer could find no better term for it, though 'dream' somehow seemed to be a pale description—it became stronger in his mind. And as it grew, it infused him with a sense of serenity and purpose that stretched into every hidden recess of his being. It was as though he had touched a greater mind, and now that those first tentative connections had been established and the barriers riven, the connection was flowing freely.

"This man," T'Pau commented as she slowly strolled across the long-dry patch of desert sand. Together, they had left the compound and came outside, into the warmth and brightness of Nevasa, and the diminutive Vulcan woman looked as though she belonged there. "Did he tell you his name?"

Archer shook his head slowly. The details were still strong; it took no effort to recall, no fuzziness to parse. "He seemed to think I knew who he was."

A second Vulcan, this one an older male, accompanied them. He was clad in heavy robes, but seemed unfazed by the heat. His hair was nearly white, and his face lined with the experiences of a long life. "Did you?" he asked slowly, his words carrying no hint of skepticism.

Archer nodded and forged ahead. "It was Surak," he replied with simple certitude.

T'Pau hesitated for only a moment. "We believe you," she said.

The sage spoke again. "Syrran possessed the living _katra _of Surak," he said. His voice was filled with gravel, but the words were strong. "If Syrran knew he was close to death, it is logical that he would have tried to transfer it to someone else."

Archer, trying to forget those terrified moments of the meld, accepted the judgment. "I was near him when he died," the captain commented. "He touched my face." Archer's hands drifted up to show the pressure points.

"Katras are nothing more than a myth," T'Pol broke in. Her anger—her derision—was strong.

T'Pau regarded her Vulcan sister with raised brows. "There was a time when I believed the same thing," she replied. "I had been taught to deny what I knew within. But I dared to explore…and as those artificial walls fell, my mind was opened to many possibilities."

T'Pol didn't answer, but her disagreement was writ across her face.

"There is only one way to be certain," the sage added. "I must see your mind."

Archer took a step back in resistance to the notion. "I've had my fill of mind melds."

"The prospect doesn't appeal to me, either," the sage admitted. "I've never melded with such a—disordered mind before. Your unchecked emotions will no doubt prove distasteful."

"So why do it?" Archer replied warily.

"This is the only way to make sure," the sage answered.

"In addition, Captain," T'Pol added, "once we verify that you hold the _katra_, we can find a way to remove it."

For Archer, the last point was the most salient. "I accept," he answered, ignoring the pointed glare from T'Pol. "However…" He couldn't forget the first meld, the forced insertion in his mind. "Please be gentle."

"Of course, Captain," the sage acknowledged. With his hands, he directed Archer to kneel before him. "Please open your mind, Captain, and accept the merge without resistance. It will be quicker…more gentle."

Archer tried to nod, but the sage's firm fingers were already holding the human's face immobile. Each fingertip attached to a neural pressure point, and the captain could already feel the energy flowing between them.

The sage closed his eyes and tilted his head up towards Nevasa. "My mind to your mind," he intoned. The words were almost hypnotic. "My thoughts to your thoughts. Our minds are merging."

Archer felt no pressure, no force pushing its way into his mind. Instead, as he opened willingly, he felt another presence radiate inwards, and they came together, adjusting their beats until they moved in unison. "Our minds are one," Archer spoke with the sage, completing the initiatory ritual.

Together, they cued up the memories from Archer's mind. They crossed the desert, lost and wandering. They ran from the sehlat, seeking refuge high atop a rock ridge. They met Arev, and together were perplexed by the man's calm serenity. They encountered the storm, and sought protection in a cave. They were flung to the floor, striken by sand-lightning. Together, they felt Arev's dying fingers seek out Archer's face in desperation.

The pace quickened as the sage found the moment he sought. As Arev stumbled through the melding process, racing to complete it before death, the sage experienced the rough insertion of another mind. He could feel its presence; he could touch it, he could taste it, he could bask in its glow. It lay there, partially beneath the surface, but emanating upwards with great strength and peacefulness.

Gently, the sage retreated, taking care not to leave the human in shock. The process out was slower, but as the seconds stretched on, the sage withdrew. Finally, the two beings opened their eyes and noticed once again the curious stares of their companions.

"He has the living _katra_," the sage answered.

...

"We can trigger a malfunction in—this—satellite's imaging node," Soval confirmed, pointing to the appropriate surveillance satellite. He and Trip were in the situation alcove at the rear of the bridge, going over the final details of their hasty plan; if all went well, they would be able to insert a single shuttlecraft into the Forge, approximately where they believed the captain and T'Pol to be.

After that, the shuttle crew would have to find a way to make contact and warn their colleagues that an assault from the High Command was on the way. "It'll take six minutes for the central processor to correct the error," Soval added. It went unsaid that Soval possessed the knowledge needed to trigger the malfunction; he had once seen the satellite designs and, like any

Vulcan, his memory was nearly eidetic.

Trip was still perplexed that a society which claimed to be open would have such a comprehensive surveillance blanket—particularly one that focused just as much inward as outward. "Won't they wonder what caused the glitch?" he asked, running through the plan for potential problems.

Soval shook his head. "Errors occur frequently near the Forge, even at that altitude. It won't raise any immediate suspicion. The technicians will undoubtedly figure it out eventually, but we will have more than enough time."

Trip looked at the Vulcan ex-ambassador curiously. "Mind if I ask you something?" When he didn't receive a negative reply, Trip continued. "Why are you doing this? I mean, helping humans against your own government? I never got the impression you cared that much about humans." Trip quashed the urge to laugh at his own understatement. "Seems like you were always finding something wrong with us to complain about."

Soval accepted the opinion with equanimity. It was not wrong; Soval had long been a proponent of Earth's continued social development _before _it took to the stars. But the better he had come to know these humans, the more he realized that they followed no pre-established pattern of awakening. "I lived on Earth for more than thirty years, Commander," he said aloud. "In that time…" he chose his words carefully. "I developed an affinity for your world and its people."

As for his differences with the Vulcan High Command, they were not for an outsider to know.

Trip looked surprised by the ambassador's stated explanation. "You did a pretty good job of hiding it," he said, his drawl spreading out with shock.

"Thank you." Soval looked inordinately pleased, causing Trip to shake his head and chuckle.

Their conversation was interrupted by the sound of the intercom. "Launch bay to Commander Tucker!"

It was the voice of Lt. Mayweather, down below in the launch bay. The pilot's immediate portion of this project involved retrofitting one of the _Enterprise _shuttlecraft for survival within the magnetic disturbances of the Forge.

"Go ahead, Travis," Trip responded, returning to business.

The sounds of laser torches and old-fashioned welders could be heard behind Travis. "We should be ready within the hour!" Mayweather reported. He had to raise his voice over the cacophony.

"What about helm control?" Trip asked. The normal helm systems were all electromagnetic—they would not function in the Forge.

"We've rigged up a stick-and-rudder system," Travis replied. "It'll get us where we want to go, but I can't promise a smooth ride."

Trip grinned. "Just don't tell Malcolm about that part until you're underway," he answered.

Back inside the sanctuary, Archer and T'Pol stepped aside from the others to converse. The captain had a lot to consider; a lot to learn, and T'Pol was determined to be the teacher.

"Centuries ago, a set of Katric Arks were discovered at the P'Jem monastery," T'Pol noted.

A large candle stood between them, its flame illuminating the near space with considerable clarity. "Katric Arks?" Archer asked uncertainly. It sounded familiar—at least, he could take a guess—but he wanted to make certain.

"Yes," T'Pol replied. "They are…polycrystalline vessels, supposedly used by ancient Vulcans to preserve katras. Some of the heretical sects believed that not only could a katra be transferred from person to person, it could also be transferred to an inanimate storage device."

"What happened with these Arks?" Archer asked. He suddenly blinked his eyes and looked away from the candle.

"They were scanned and analyzed," T'Pol answered. "One of the scientists even attempted to meld with them. But they found nothing to indicate the presence of a katra."

"The absence of proof is not necessarily proof of absence," Archer quoted, recalling the logically-irrefutable argument. "Besides, the Vulcan Science Academy was just as skeptical about time travel," he added pointedly. It had taken T'Pol several years to convince the Science Academy that her first-hand experiences with time travel were real.

T'Pol stood up and leaned over the candle. The flame was blocked from her face, and sent only lengthy trails of scarce light flickering across her features. "Captain, do you really believe that you possess the living spirit of Surak inside you? A man who died eighteen hundred years ago?"

Archer smiled, but held back the chuckle. "Not when you put it like that, no," he acknowledged. It was the truth: that wasn't exactly what he believed.

T'Pol was satisfied that she had triumphed. "There is a logical explanation," she added.

"I'm listening," Archer replied.

T'Pol started pacing. "Syrran melded with you before he died," she stated. "What you're experiencing could simply be the residue of his thoughts."

The low light cloaked the humor in Archer's eyes. "So I'm suffering from a mind meld hangover?" he asked.

"I wouldn't characterize it quite that way," T'Pol replied, "but essentially."

"Then how would you characterize it?" Archer waved his hands to clear away the question. "No, you don't have to answer that. What I have, T'Pol…it feels like far more than that."

"You have no basis for comparison," T'Pol retorted. "You've never undergone a mind meld before."

Archer couldn't help but smile. "The vision of Surak was only part of it," he answered. "It's like…" he paused as he fumbled with the words. "It's intuition, T'Pol," he said finally, realizing that her upbringing had trained her to reject any form of such knowledge. "You're trying to define it through exterior reason, but this…it's something that cannot be understood by the exterior mind."

"Captain, you're making no sense," T'Pol rejoined. Faint anger crept into her voice.

"Let's say you're right," Archer responded, leaning forward. "And it was just a mind meld. He still put something in my head."

"It may not be possible to take it out," T'Pol answered.

...

Stepping through the short hallway from the captain's ready room and onto the bridge, Trip growled inwardly, taking care to suppress any sign of his anger. On the viewscreen before him, taller and wider than real life, was the visage of Chief Administrator V'Las—and if Trip wasn't mistaken, the corners of V'Las' mouth were turned slightly upward. _Isn't there a proverb about never trusting a smiling Vulcan? _Trip pondered momentarily as he moved forward.

Trip put on his best face. "What can we do for you?" he asked, irrationally hoping that the conversation would go well.

His hopes were quickly dashed. "Where is your captain?" V'Las asked abruptly. Like the rest of his people, he wasted little time with pleasantries.

_He's down on your planet, but I'm not telling you that, you little—_Trip caught the thought deep in his throat. "He's indisposed at the moment," the engineer said instead. It came out as a bit of a challenge. "Can I help you?"

"The investigation of the Embassy bombing is nearly complete," V'Las answered. "Your assistance is no longer required. The Security Directorate will finish it."

"You, ah, you have a suspect," Trip replied, stalling for time while his thoughts raced. He knew—strongly suspected, at least—that V'Las was referring to the targets of the frame-up.

"The evidence against her and the Syrranites is compelling," V'Las answered, a little magnanimously. "There's no longer any need for your presence here."

_So that's the way it's going to be, _Trip thought. "If it's all the same to you, we'd like to stick around for a little while. Maybe do a little sight-seeing. I hear that…the desert is quite lovely at this time of year."

The corners of V'Las' mouth fell. "We'd prefer you didn't, _Enterprise_," the administrator answered. "This _is _Vulcan sovereign space, after all. We'll keep Starfleet apprised if there are any subsequent developments."

"Excellency—" Trip protested.

"Again," V'Las intervened, his eyes flashing darkly. "You have my deepest sympathy for your loss. All of Vulcan grieves with you."

"With all respect, Administrator, we aren't leaving," Trip retorted. His efforts to stay calm were failing. "Not until we know exactly what happened!"

"I've also contacted Admiral Gardner," V'Las added, referring to the Starfleet Chief-of-Staff pro temp. "He sounded quite eager to have you return; I'm sure you'll be hearing from him soon. A pleasant journey, _Enterprise._"

The comm connection was unceremoniously terminated.

Trip let his anger surface. "Sonuvabitch hung up on us!" he snarled. "That slimy piece of _shit_!"

"Should I try to get him back?" Hoshi asked skeptically, suspecting that she already knew the answer.

Trip shook his head. "But we're sure as hell not leaving, either."

...

The outer courtyards of the T'Kareth Sanctuary had, at one time, been open-air plazas artfully concealed within the cliff faces of the surrounding rock. In protected seclusion, acolytes could bathe in the purifying rays of Nevasa, allowing the warmth and the light to permeate inward to every cell of their being, imbuing strength and life deep within. The sloping rock face around the courtyards had been carefully worked by skilled masons to accent the affect; the reflective surface channeled the warmth downward, bringing the glow to the otherwise-dim floors far beneath.

Over the centuries, as persecution ebbed and flowed, successive generations had slowly built over these courtyards to better hide from aerial patrols. But even now, two thousand years later, select places existed where a channel in the _faux_-rock roof allowed the burning light to shine through during precise hours of the day, fully illuminating the world underneath with the strength of Nevasa.

It was here that T'Les found T'Pau. The two women nodded in greeting, and T'Les spoke first. "No one here has ever performed this ritual," she stated quietly. The words would not travel more than a meter.

"No," T'Pau acknowledged. "But our histories indicate that it was performed on numerous occasions in antiquity. Soren has studied the ritual extensively, and can conduct it successfully."

The reassurance was not enough for T'Les. "You'd not only be placing Surak's _katra_ in jeopardy," she hissed, "you could also kill Archer." She left unclear which was more important, but T'Pau chose to not press it.

"The risks have been calculated," the younger woman answered confidently. "They are acceptable."

"According to who?" T'Les came back. Her voice, although still quiet, rose to a peak. "I doubt Surak would agree."

T'Pau closed her eyes for a moment. "What alternative would you suggest?" she answered. Her eyes opened as her voice tightened, revealing a hint of the steel resolve within. "That we leave the _katra _where it is? That we follow a _human_?"

T'Les quivered slightly. "I believe your prejudice toward humans is clouding your judgment."

T'Pau raised one eyebrow in astonishment. "You believe that it is _my _feelings towards Archer that are inappropriate?" she rejoined. "When we have yet to establish why _you _are so concerned about his well-being? You've already demonstrated a weakness regarding your daughter—are you forming illogical attachments to the _human _as well?"

T'Les pulled back for a second before answering. "It is a simple matter of logic," she replied. "Syrran chose to place the _katra _in Archer. He must have had his reasons, even if we don't understand them. To interfere would thus be illogical."

"The reason is obvious," T'Pau hissed. She turned away momentarily until her control reasserted itself. "Syrran was dying. Your daughter couldn't reach him in time. He _had _to chose Archer."

T'Les had to concede the point. "That may be," she replied, "but we _do _have a choice. Now, for the sake of everyone involved, I ask you to consider."

"On what grounds?" T'Pau rejoined. "That there is some risk involved? Logically, the value of rescuing the _katra _supersedes the level of risk." She halted as she focused her mind's eye on a single point of light, bringing back a sense of balance. "I've made my decision. Soren will perform the procedure in one hour."

"And what if Archer dies?" T'Les asked softly.

T'Pau shook her head. "It is illogical to sacrifice Vulcan's future simply to protect the life of one human."

...

T'Pol focused her gaze on the candle.

It held a small flame, smaller than a finger, which flickered delicately. The smallest draft sent it dancing to one side or the other, in threat of disappearing completely, but the flame clung to its tenuous grasp atop the wick.

There were other candles lit in the spacious cell, but as T'Pol focused, they slowly disappeared. She saw only the flame before her, solitary and lonesome in the darkness as it fought against the shadows for existence. Against the odds, it grew, radiating a glow outward in her mind, slowly illuminating the deep recesses within.

Involuntarily, T'Pol trembled, and she nearly lost her grip on the flame. Her body refused to stay still; errant charges shot along her nerve system, commanding muscles to randomly twitch in minute seizure. Under the force, she rocked back and forth, struggling to cling to the flame.

Something reached out and touched her. She felt the presence, the stability, and she allowed it to calm her. Her breathing eased, and the trembles slowed as she drew strength. Slowly, she opened her eyes, and became aware of the captain sitting beside her.

"You know," he said, "I'm the one with a Vulcan ghost in his head, depending on who you believe." A twinkle flashed in his eye. "But I don't feel half as bad as you look."

T'Pol withdrew uncomfortably. "It is insignificant," she replied.

"Of course," Archer answered skeptically. "At least we know your mother's okay," he added, seeking to reassure T'Pol.

She rewarded him with a surprisingly-hostile glare. "She's joined a violent cult," T'Pol retorted. "She's _not _okay."

Archer smiled peacefully. "I don't think these people had anything to do with the Embassy," he replied.

T'Pol looked at him askance. "You're willing to take their word for it? They are heretics. Lying is what they do."

"Let's just say…" Archer paused as he tried to phrase his thought, but he couldn't find the right words. "Let's just say it's more than a gut feeling," he answered. The weakness of the words was overmatched by the confidence in his tone.

Before T'Pol could respond, a clatter was heard outside the cell door, and the two officers stood up and turned simultaneously. The door rattled open, revealing T'Pau and T'Les. T'Pau's face was impassive, while T'Les bore an unmistakable look of concern.

"We've come to a decision," T'Pau stated outright, in lieu of any greeting. She addressed the captain directly. "The _katra_ must be removed."

Archer shot a sideways glance at T'Pol. "I can't argue with that," he answered dryly, paying discreet attention to the flash of panic on his XO's face. Disagreements aside, he still closely trusted her counsel.

"There's a procedure," T'Pau said. The short Vulcan woman held her chin upward. "A melding ritual. It will transfer the _katra _to another person."

Archer hesitated to answer; T'Pol's panic convinced him that there was another detail.

T'Les stepped in, joining the conversation. "It's not within risk," she explained.

T'Pau nodded unwillingly. "Vulcan neurology is exceptionally resilient," she added. "But a human's—"

In severe breach of Vulcan protocol, T'Les broke in. "The shock to your nervous system will be severe," the older woman elucidated. "It could kill you."

"You must decline, Captain." T'Pol's features were etched with concern as her control faltered.

"We're not offering a choice," T'Pau countered.

T'Pol moved forward in shock. "You would force a meld on him?" she demanded, scarcely able to believe it. It verified everything she had heard about the Syrranites—any Vulcan willing to _force_ their way into another mind was even worse than a perversion, and be capable of any act of grotesque violence. She looked at the captain, expecting him to be recoiling in similar alarm; but to her surprise, he seemed to be following along.

T'Pau glared at T'Pol before returning to Archer. "We'd prefer that you undertake the ritual willingly," she stated calmly. "It will stand a better chance of success. However, if force is required…we won't hesitate to use it."

Archer nodded. "Let's get started."

T'Pol was still in shock; how could he not see the sickness manifest in these so-called Vulcans? "Captain—" she started to protest, before Archer cut her off.

"It's my call." Ironically enough, the only human in the room was the most serene.

...

Trip's fury cleared a path down the corridor before him, sending junior officers to each side. He was accompanied by Malcolm Reed, who was finally back on duty; and Ambassador Soval followed a step behind, trying to remain stately while matching the exasperated pace.

"How'd things go with the admiral?" Malcolm asked, huffing slightly for breath. He may have been returned to duty, but his recovery wasn't totally complete.

"Admiral Gardner followed the Vulcan line straight down the middle," Trip growled, exposing the source of his immediate anger. In his view, Gardner was little more than a toady, and a weak replacement for the principled strength of Maxwell Forrest. "He ordered us to leave immediately."

"Did you tell him about the captain and T'Pol?" Malcolm queried, half-jogging alongside.

"I, ah, left that part out," Trip answered. "Had a feeling he wouldn't like it."

"I hate to say it, Commander, but—" Malcolm paused with reluctance. "If he gave us a direct order…"

"He can court-martial me when we do return," Trip retorted. "He's going to anyway, so I might as well add one more charge." Left unstated was the common realization that he had barely avoided a penal colony for his actions in the Delphic Expanse.

"The _Enterprise _was supposed to leave orbit an hour ago," Soval noted placidly. Unlike the two humans, he was not short of breath. "V'Las is not a patient man."

Trip growled again. "What's he going to do about it? Attack us? We're sure as hell not leaving for anything less." Before them, the launch bay doors opened, and the three men stepped onto the lower level. Before them was Shuttlepod One; it looked no different, but substantial refits were lurking beneath the hull. "Hell of a job, Travis," Trip shouted out.

"Thank you, sir," Mayweather shouted back down. He was on the upper scaffolding, preparing the final matters. "But I can't guarantee anything."

"Just find them and bring them back," Trip replied. "No sight-seeing along the way!"

Travis chuckled audibly. "Understood, sir!" he answered, adding: "I'm getting tired of the desert anyway!"

Trip cracked a quick smile before pivoting quickly. Malcolm would remain in the launch bay, as part of the insertion team; Trip and Soval were due on the bridge. "Let's go jam a recon satellite," Tucker said to the Vulcan on their way back out. "This is going to be fu-un!"

...

As V'las walked into his darkened office, with its panoramic view high above the cityscape of Shi'Kahr, he allowed himself a deep breath of relaxation. From birth, he had always struggled with the emotional suppression that seemed to come so easy for his peers; years of hard work and brutal discipline had been needed, and maintaining his mien around his colleagues was a tiring affair.

So, to, did he harbor great resentment against them. Why did they have it so easy, when he had it so hard? Unlike them, he had _worked _for it, he had struggled and fought every step of the way. He had _earned _his stoic demeanor, while it had been gifted to the others. In a way, he thought, it did make him stronger; the others could not truly appreciate what they had been given, whereas his decades of battle had tested him and tried him, and ultimately made him the man capable of leading Vulcan.

V'Las let his heavy outer robe slide down his arms, and laid it over the back of a chair. The garments often rode heavy on his shoulders, a physical reminder of the mental constraints that he endured. There were some times—not many, but some—when he wanted to throw it all away. Not the office, but the whole artifice of emotional suppression; throw it all away and release his true potential. Unlike the others, he _knew _what lay beneath; and after these many decades, he still could not understand why it must be suppressed.

He walked over the window, and let his gaze spread across the tops of low buildings radiating outward from the city center. In true Vulcan fashion, the capital city was laid out in logical fashion, extending outward in a lock-step grid from the very building which he occupied; on one side was the central market, on another the Science Academy. Between them, and reaching out, where block after block of spacious open-air villas. The larger ones belonged to the great families of Vulcan; but even the smaller villas were roomy and sufficient. There were no slums in Shi'Kahr.

Toward the edges, where the city fought with the desert, the street-lined grid slowly disappeared until only a few main highways remained. These branched out in each cardinal direction. Far out into the desert, tiny spurs would shoot out to connect the many isolated retreats that the Vulcan people preferred; but those were far beyond his eyesight, even under the soft glow of T'Rukh.

Sighing, the Chief Administrator turned around, activated the lights, and nearly jumped.

"Talok," he said, stumbling, his mind racing to cope with this unexpected violation of his privacy.

The man had pulled one chair into a corner, and now sat there, his legs crossed and relaxed. "The _Enterprise _is still in orbit," Talok said brusquely, eschewing any pleasantries. "They're maintaining a stationary position above the Forge."

"I'm well aware of that," V'Las snapped. "We're continuing to monitor them."

Talok shifted his legs. "We can't proceed with the assault while the Earth ship is here."

V'Las took a seat on the edge of his desk. "Gardner gave them an order to leave," the Administrator answered irately. "I heard the transmission myself. They'll be gone soon."

"Are you so sure of that?" Talok leaned forward now, resting his elbows on his knees. "They haven't left yet, have they?"

"They wouldn't disobey an order without a reason," V'Las retorted.

"It appears as though they have one," Talok answered. "Find out what it is."

...

The _Enterprise _was at T-five minutes when Ambassador Soval hailed the bridge.

"Tucker here," Trip snapped. His mind was wrapped up with the shuttle insertion; he didn't exactly appreciate the interruption.

"Commander." The Vulcan's voice stayed even. "I must request that we transport someone up from the surface immediately."

"What's this about?" Trip rejoined.

"Commander, I must ask you to trust me." A note of urgency crept into Soval's voice. "Authorize the transport _now._"

Trip turned to tactical. Malcolm's stand-by, Ensign Rahimi, was waiting for the order. "Do it," Trip ordered. "And take two guards down there to sort it out."

...

As Archer was guided through subterranean passageway after passageway, he began to understand just how vast the T'Kareth Sanctuary really was. It was dug down, level upon level, into the soft sandstone that lay under the Forge, through tunnels and caverns; and periodically, a single node would branch out into a dozen more tunnels, with nothing but torches to light the way.

Through this underground labyrinth, his escorts guided him unerringly, never once slowing to consult on the path. In his own way, as the air grew chilly around them, Archer knew they were walking along pathways carved out millennia past; the floors were soft from thousands of carpeted feet that had come this way before. His own instincts told him they were following the correct route; he could not explain why, but he experienced no doubt.

At one time, the lower reaches of the sanctuary must have housed a large community; there was easily room for several thousand to live with comfort in the twisting tunnels and spacious cells. During the great wars of Vulcan's past, it would have been deep enough to avoid the scourge of radiation; and the upper tunnels could easily be blocked to provide security for those dwelling within.

Archer and his guides reached the end of a tunnel. No more spurs remained; but the bland rock face before them was anything but material. The age-old simplicity of these caverns harbored some high-tech mechanisms, and the holographic wall was one of them.

The captain instinctively paused before the wall, awaiting the signal to enter. His own hearing could not detect the sounds within; but that of his escorts could. They waited with him in silence for perhaps a minute until one of the escorts tapped Archer on the shoulder. He pointed forward, and Archer understood.

He stepped through and into the ritual cavern. It was simple in design, and imposing in its simplicity; scarcely twenty meters in diameter, it was equally tall with the familiar balcony ring forming an upper level. In the rock wall circumscribing the room were five dark spots, each one a recessed doorway; between them, flaming torches were fastened to the walls, sending a flickering glow of light about the room.

Knowing his part, Archer came to a respective halt towards the center of the room and allowed his head to lower in reverence. To one side, slightly behind him; he had noticed three figures; T'Pau, T'Les, and T'Pol were there. They were not a part of the ritual, but would observe. From above, an unseen figure sounded a massive gong, sending a resonant echo through the cavern. It caused the torches to shake and the light to quiver.

Inside each recessed doorway, a faint light appeared, barely visible even to the best of eyes. Gradually, if one stared, the lights started to brighten, their glow becoming stronger and more vibrant; in perfect silence, they were on the move, entering with uncanny coordination and precision. Time was immaterial as the hidden lights slowly emerged.

Finally, the lights arrived in the cavern, each one carried by a Vulcan sage. They were clad in simple, russet-covered robes that wrapped around the body, with a pointed hood that came forward, masking the face within in shadow. Each moved so softly that they seemed to hover over the worn stone.

The sage in the center stepped forward from the rest and approached Archer. Slowly, reverently, he handed his torch to the captain, then raised his head and hands upward.

"Let us praise the _vai tam'a,_" he intoned solemnly. The sage's voice was tenor, soft, but far from weak, as he hummed an ancient melody.

_{Vulcan text}  
><em>

The last echoes of the sage's song slowly died away, restoring the cavern to solitude.

Soren waited until the stillness was complete before moving again. With ginger motion, he reached out and accepted the torch from Archer; the sage to the side of him stepped in to take the burning flame. Soren spread his hands, commanding the captain to kneel.

"Passed down through the Ages," he said softly, his words conscious to all who could hear, "we bring the knowledge of our ancestors, the _ho-rah _of _vre-katra_. Before us resides the true _katra _of Surak, trapped for this time in the realm of _e'shua_. Let it now live on in me."

The softly-spoken words disappeared again in the stillness before Soren moved, bringing his hands forward and allowing his fingers to fall upon Archer's face. Each fingertip instinctively sought contact with the surface nerves, and a force of energy began to flow between the two men. "_Vokau_," Soren said, emanating from within.

"_Vokau_," Archer repeated, his lips moving of their own accord. His eyes were closed, but the darkness was weak; it flashed white and cleared into brightness, a light that came from nowhere. The captain arose, looking about; the place was unknown, yet intensely familiar. He was in a cavern, but one far above the desert's floor, and flecks of ash drifted downward around him.

In one corner, an elderly Vulcan leaned against the wall, depending upon it for support. "Surak," Archer whispered, recognizing the man who plagued his deepest thoughts.

Surak turned around slowly, and Archer could see the source of pain; the sage's face was lined with green, and flecks of skin were peeling off. "Good to see you again, Captain," Surak said, his voice cracking horribly. "My appearance must be quite disconcerting. I apologize."

Instinctively, Archer stepped forward to help steady the sage. "Is it radiation sickness?" he asked, recognizing the effects of the lethal compounds.

The sage could barely nod. "We're paying a heavy price for our foolishness, Captain," Surak acknowledged. He had to pause to rest his voice. "Logic has not won this day."

"What can I do?" Archer asked.

Surak pushed away from the wall and started moving slowly across the room. The captain rushed to support the elderly man, catching him beneath one shoulder. "This day won't last forever, Jonathan. Logic is at the heart of every Vulcan. Even as the ashes fall…" he gestured feebly at the flakes around them. "My people are seeking their logic; they seek _korsovau. _The time is at last ready, but they need the guidance of _Tel-alep. _ You can accomplish what Syrran could not."

Archer nearly stepped back in surprise. "But Syrran—"

"Syrran was a Vulcan," Surak acknowledged. "And you are a human. But once you understand the _ni'var_, you will see that it must be so."

"I—I'm not sure what to do," Archer admitted.

"Jonathan, you are untouched by a culture that cannot see itself." The words carried a power that belied the man. "You can find what my people have lost."

"The guidance of _Tel-alep_?" Archer asked skeptically.

"You must find the hidden _Kir'Shara_," Surak answered. "It will reveal all things."

The room flashed white again, and Archer found himself back in the cavern.

Soren stepped back, a troubled expression breaking through his passive mien. "Surak chooses to remain where he is," the sage explained.

...

_This is it_, Trip told himself as the modified shuttlepod skirted a path beneath the saucer of the _Enterprise_. It was their only solid option for finding Captain Archer and Commander T'Pol—for all Trip knew, his two superior officers were wandering the desert somewhere, still trying to find the Syrranite retreat. And if Archer and T'Pol _had _found the retreat, they were likely unaware of the danger they were under. It was abundantly clear by now that the High Command intended to destroy the Syrranite retreat and all those within it.

Standing off to the side, at the little-used fourth bridge console, Soval entered a series of commands and lines of code into the computer. From there, a tight beam shot out at the nearest monitoring satellite; the contents of the beam scrambled the satellite's components, knocking it temporarily offline. "The satellite's been disabled," Soval confirmed aloud. "We have six minutes to get through."

Trip took a deep breath. "Acknowledged," he said as he rose to his feet; like the captain, he found it hard to sit still. He opened the comm connection. "Travis, it's all yours. You have six minutes and counting."

Travis reached over his head to flip open the channel. "Acknowledged, _Enterprise_," he replied, leaving the channel open. The ride was already growing bumpy; the magnetic disturbances that swirled about Vulcan's Forge reached nearly to the top of the exosphere, some thousand kilometers above the planet's surface. From there, they plunged downward hundreds of kilometers, only lessening in intensity beneath the lower limits of the ionosphere.

"Probably should've skipped breakfast this morning," Malcolm added ruefully. The armory officer and tactical chief was riding in the secondary control seat behind the pilot.

"We're through," Travis added a moment later as the pod crossed the primary surveillance boundary. They were now beneath the devices, flying downward into the magnetic soup of Vulcan's northern polar region.

"We've lost communications," Malcolm confirmed. It was somewhat unnecessary, as the shuttle's occupants knew to expect this; but he was a firm supporter of proper protocols. They had saved him—and others—from some number of faulty assumptions.

The bucking increased as the shuttle dove, sending the small craft slaloming through the air. The powerful punches knocked it about, from side to side and up and down; Travis had to concentrate closely on the makeshift control stick to keep any semblance of control. "These thermals are only going to get stronger," he warned the other occupants, and seconds later, a strong blast sent the shuttle sideways across hundreds of meters.

Twice more, the shuttle was rapidly struck, and Malcolm spoke up with concern. "Those weren't thermals," he announced, replaying the hull readings from the strikes. "Those were bloody energy weapons! Travis, I think I have two patrol ships on our tail!"

Even as Travis sent the craft into a pre-set pattern of evasive maneuvers, he recognized the sheer futility of it: the buffeting from the disturbances was far more powerful, overwhelming the precise course corrections. "Can you get me something more?" he shouted over his shoulder, not daring to look away from his controls.

"Hang on—confirming, two patrol craft riding at roughly 5 and 7 o'clock!" Malcolm shouted back. The strong currents and the rocketing of the shuttle were causing an almost-insurmountable racket, and the craft was struck again by weapons fire.

"Are weapons still online?" Travis shouted. Following their return from the Delphic Expanse, the shuttlepods were outfitted with small plasma cannons; nothing particularly powerful, but it was better than nothing. _And in this soup_, Travis realized, _it won't take much to knock a ship out of control_.

"Plasma cannons are still working," Malcolm replied loudly. The weapons wouldn't stay online for much longer. "Targeting sensors are out!"

"We're in the upper reaches of the magnetic fields!" Travis answered, still not turning his head. His voice was nearly lost in the clamorous noise.

"It doesn't seem to be bothering them!" Malcolm responded, still shouting. A massive current struck the shuttle amidships, causing the tactical officer to grip his console and lower his head between his legs. A trial of vomit flowed backwards, sending the security personnel behind scrambling for cover.

"They're used to it!" Travis returned. It was an unavoidable risk; logic—a dangerous word—logic suggested that the Vulcans had developed better shielding for these conditions. The _Enterprise _personnel depended on stealth and surprise, neither of which appeared to be present this day.

"I can still aim manually!" Malcolm shouted, returning his focus to his controls. He casually wiped his mouth with the back of a sleeve; it was the best he could do under combat conditions. "Can you get us on their tail?"

"Hang on!" Travis answered loudly. "It's gonna get rough!"

Malcolm's sarcastic reply was swallowed up in the noise as the shaking craft suddenly pulled upwards, its nose pointing to open space that beckoned from an impossible distance away. The sharp forces thrust the occupants backward in their seats, the pressure nearly cracking ribs and suffocating breath; the sudden shift to high-gees pushed the endurance of the crewmen.

The shuttlepod pulled itself up and over, performing a shaky loop in the distorted skies far above the Forge. In the fierce currents, it came out level but a hundred meters off to the side; Travis nearly turned the craft over in a sharp turn to correct the imbalance.

"Hold her steady!" Malcolm shouted, watching the targeting crosshairs on his screen.

"I can only give you a couple seconds!" Travis replied.

"Good enough!" Malcolm hit the firing commands, and small balls of high-energy plasma shot out before them, striking first one patrol craft and then the other. His aim was true; both patrol craft peeled away, no longer capable of meeting the exacting operating conditions needed for the magnetic distortions.

A faint applause was heard from the security personnel in the rear of the shuttle, but Travis did not share the joy. "We've lost part of the starboard wing!" he shouted as he struggled to hold the craft level. It refused to cooperate, instead bouncing through thermal layers like a reeling pinball.

"We have to abort!" Malcolm announced.

"I think I can get us down!" Travis answered optimistically. The powerful racket belied his hopes.

"You won't be able to get us back up!" Malcolm shouted. "Abort _now_!"

"Aye, sir!" Travis responded instantly. "Thrusters are offline. Switching to chemical rockets! Hang on!"

...

"They've been fired on," Hoshi confirmed. For the shuttle insertion, she had shifted to T'Pol's science console, and was now parsing the signs of battle through the wild sensor readings that streamed across her monitors. "They took damage. They're returning to the _Enterprise_."

"Shit." Trip's shoulders slumped with imagined weight; two of his closest friends were down there somewhere, and he had no other means of reaching them. "I guess six minutes wasn't enough," he added ruefully.

"Six minutes have not yet passed," Soval countered from his own post. "The logical conclusion is that they were monitoring us."

"They were on us right from the start," Trip spoke in clarification. It was cold comfort to know that the attempt was futile anyway. "Those bastards really don't want us around, do they?" he asked of no one in particular.

"Commander!" Hoshi's voice rose quickly. "Three Vulcan ships are closing on our position!"

"What?" Trip's head wheeled about as the telltale ring of a comm hail sounded across the bridge.

"We're being hailed," Hoshi added unnecessarily. "It's Administrator V'Las."

"On screen," Trip ordered. In the half-second before the channel was established, Trip smoothed the front of his duty coveralls and assumed his best stoic expression.

"Why did you launch a shuttlepod?" V'Las shot in roughly. His displeasure could be felt, even across the comm channel.

"Why the hell did you fire on it?" Trip shot back. He wasn't backing down on this one.

"You had no authorization," V'Las retorted. His eyes hardened into deep black. "Answer the question."

Trip sighed, running through his remaining options. They didn't look good. "We're looking for our captain," he admitted. Perhaps—slight, but perhaps—V'Las would hold off, in the interests of removing the captain as well.

V'Las' dark eyes narrowed. "Archer's on the surface?" he stated for confirmation as the realization set in. It was the answer he had been looking for.

Trip nodded. "He's in the Forge, searching for the Syrranites." He resisted the urge to add a jab about the captain doing V'Las' work.

"It is of no regard," V'Las answered, dashing what hope remained. "You were ordered to leave orbit, _Enterprise_."

From the side, Soval stepped forward into the camera's view. His sudden appearance took the focus off of Commander Tucker. "I advised them to stay," Soval replied firmly. He felt no shame in his actions.

V'Las glared at the ex-ambassador. "I assume you assisted in disabling the security satellite as well."

"I gave them the code," Soval acknowledged. "You are acting quite illogically, V'Las. It is my conclusion that acting against you is in the best interests of mother Vulcan."

V'Las ignored the barb, although two of the other administrators flinched behind him. "Commander Tucker," he stated, shifting his attention back to the human. "Break orbit immediately."

"We're not leaving without the captain!" Trip retorted.

"Let me make this clear, Commander," V'Las said, leaning forward. "You are in sovereign Vulcan space. You are no longer welcome. If you do not leave immediately, I will order my ships to open fire."

...

_Quote from The Sentences of Sextus_


	9. Chapter 8

—**OHKUH****—**

"You ask me what cannot be taught."

-The Hidden _Kir'Shara _of Surak

...

It was a prevalent myth—but a myth nonetheless—that Vulcans have no emotions. Along with the violent, warlike impulses that characterized so much of Vulcan history was a remarkable degree of warmth and sensitivity which only manifested itself in extreme privacy—it would not do to have another witness it, particularly if the other person was a non-Vulcan.

The captain had made it back to his cell before collapsing, lapsing into unsettled unconsciousness, and with no one to witness, T'Pol was tenderly caring for him. She had done her best to make him comfortable, offering what relief she could; even now, she dabbed his fevered forehead with a cool, wet cloth, and squeezing droplets of water into his mouth. Archer tried to hunch over in the imagined pain generated by fried nerves, but she held him still, allowing the faint connection to imbue him with her own sense of balance.

T'Pol paused as her sensitive hearing picked up the unmistakable sound of footfalls. She thought she recognized them, and as she turned her head, she found that she was right; T'Les had entered the room, and now crouched down, a couple meters away. The air between mother and daughter was frozen.

"How is he?" T'Les asked softly, allowing a hint of her own concern to surface. She recognized the irony; T'Les had opposed the ritual transference for the same reasons that T'Pol now blamed on her mother.

"His breathing has stabilized," T'Pol replied curtly. While Vulcan mores allowed her to be cold, she could not completely ignore her mother. "But his fever is still running high."

T'Les rocked forward slightly. "He agreed to the ritual," the elder woman said quietly. "He was informed of the risks. It is illogical to blame others for his decision."

T'Pol shot an angered look at her mother. "Are you a fool?" she replied sharply, proper deference be damned. "If he hadn't, you would have forced him. He had no meaningful choice in the matter."

"He came willingly," T'Les replied. She could feel how incomplete the words were.

T'Pol's glare still pierced with anger. "You claim that the High Command has corrupted Surak's teachings," she said accusingly, "but it is you who would have been willing to force a mind meld." T'Pol knew from her own experiences that a forced meld was the most brutal form of rape a Vulcan could be subjected to.

T'Les sighed. "There is a profound difference," she answered, although she could not explain it herself. She was in the uncomfortable position of having to defend actions that she did not agree with, actions that deeply troubled her own logic. Between them, the body of Jonathan Archer tried twisting again.

"You deceive yourself," T'Pol retorted, holding her captain down. Seconds later, the seizure passed, and he relaxed again. "I shouldn't have come here looking for you," T'Pol added, turning the blame against herself. Her voice nearly broke with regret. "And I don't want anything more to do with you."

T'Les' eyes fell to the ground as her head bent in sorrow. "If that's your wish," she answered gently. "So shall it be."

...

More hours passed in the stillness of the cell as T'Pol continued to nurse her captain back to wakefulness. From time to time, she noted, his lips would move in utterance of words she did not understand; but he was undoubtedly suffering from hallucinations. On occasion, his eyes would open, but they were unfocused, and slid shut within moments.

Finally, after nearly a dozen such episodes, Archer's eyes opened and latched onto T'Pol's face. "How long have I been out?" he asked, groaning with aching misery.

"Hours," she replied, sparing him the full truth for the time being. "How do you feel?"

"I feel like I just pulled my head out of a plasma relay," he said, chuckling weakly. Experimentally, he tried to move his fingers, and discovered that the muscles answered his commands.

"You should rest," T'Pol countered, laying a hand on her captain's shoulder.

Archer disregarded it and rolled over, lifting himself onto his side. His eyes turned to the barren rock walls of the cell, his gaze shifting beyond as if following a long-hidden passageway. "The _Kir'Shara_," he said softly. T'Pol had to struggle to understand the words.

"What do you know about it?" A sharp voice coming from the doorway caught their attention; T'Pau had materialized from nowhere, and now analyzed the captain with a searching gaze.

"Surak mentioned it," Archer said slowly. Feeling his strength returning, he lifted himself onto his hands and knees. "It was important to him. And it's down in those caverns."

T'Pol looked back and forth in confusion. "What's a Kir'Shara?" she asked finally.

"It is…an artifact," T'Pau answered hesitatingly, disinclined to offer a more complete explanation. "Syrran led us here to find it."

"I know where it is," Archer said confidently.

T'Pau's eyes followed the captain carefully. "We may not have the chance to find it," she admitted. "We've sighted three Vulcan cruisers in orbit over the Forge."

"The High Command would bombard the Forge from orbit?" T'Pol responded in disbelief.

"Yes," T'Pau answered. "I've given the order to evacuate immediately. You must come with me."

"No," Archer answered carefully. It came out with intense force. "I can find the _Kir'Shara._"

...

The _Enterprise _shuddered gently from the force of nearby explosions.

"That one missed us by twenty meters," Hoshi reported, checking the readings on the science console. The warning shots had been drawing gradually closer, but had thus far failed to rattle the resolve of the bridge crew.

"Go to general quarters," Trip ordered. "Polarize the hull plating." Behind him, Ensign Rahimi triggered the alarms throughout the ship. On the decks below, crewmembers tied down non-essential systems and rushed to battle stations; they moved with speed and precision, preparing the _Enterprise _in quick time.

Trip glanced over at Soval. "How many warning shots do Vulcans usually fire?" he asked, trying to gauge the coming battle.

Soval shrugged. "None."

"Commander," Hoshi interrupted. Her voice matched the alert of the comm system. "V'Las is hailing us."

Trip quashed the urge to throttle the Vulcan administrator. "On screen, Hoshi."

V'Las' voice nearly beat the visual image. "I'm running out of patience, Commander," the chief administrator stated irately. The contrast between the volatile V'Las and even Soval was considerable.

"We've been over this," Trip shot back belligerently. "Our captain and first officer are in the Forge."

"And we'll make sure they're returned to you," V'Las answered in faint reassurance. "Leave. Now." The transmission was terminated.

Trip sighed and looked towards Soval. "You really think he'll do it?"

"V'Las will do whatever it takes to accomplish his goal," Soval answered. "He is…a very effective administrator."

...

Deep beneath the streets of Shi'Kahr, in the command bunkers of the High Command, another battle was raging; the five administrators were gathered, along with the Security Department commandants, and the pretense of emotional control was rapidly faltering.

"Vulcan and Earth have been allies for a hundred years!" Minister Soketh snarled, stepping physically into V'Las' path. "Are you really ready to throw that away over a ragtag bunch of discontents?"

"This is a matter of Vulcan survival!" V'Las retorted, pulling eye-to-eye with Soketh. "If we don't destroy those terrorists, they will eventually destroy all of Vulcan!"

"How?" Soketh rejoined disbelievingly. "They can't even leave the Forge! How can they possibly threaten the existence of our entire world?"

"They are allied with the Andorians!" V'Las replied angrily. "They will allow our foreign enemies to take over Vulcan soil!"

"_Bath'pa_!" Soketh shouted. "You have shown us no proof, just your paranoid suspicions!"

"My orders stand, _Soketh!_" V'Las snarled. "Your opposition is becoming treasonous!" He turned to a military commander. "Drive the _Enterprise _from orbit. Use all necessary force!"

"Yes, Excellency," the commander confirmed.

...

Salvos of green energy shot out at the _Enterprise_, and the Starfleet ship replied with fire of its own.

The sanctuary shook and rocks crumbled overhead as the ancient structure came under bombardment. In the anomalies of the Forge, standard particle-energy weapons did not work; but old-fashioned chemical bombs, dropped from the bellies of aircraft, were more than sufficient. The sandstone was not particularly strong, and tritanium bombshells plunged through the upper layers before the explosives ignited, rocking the sanctuary from within.

In the dust and noise, as the Syrranites moved about with controlled chaos, T'Pau and T'Les stumbled across each other. "Take charge of the evacuation!" T'Pau shouted to the older woman. "We'll meet back up as soon as we can!"

T'Les only had moments. "You can't stay here!" she replied. A shower of dust and pebble fell on top of her, and she shook her head, trying to clear the debris from her hair.

"We're not!" T'Pau answered loudly, barely audible over the thunderous explosions. "We're going after the _Kir'Shara_!"

The words stunned T'Les into temporary silence. "The _Kir'Shara_?" she repeated finally, the amazement dawning in her face.

"Archer knows where to find it!" T'Pau answered. She pushed T'Les lightly to snap the woman back into the moment. "Get everyone out of here!" T'Pau turned and took off towards one of the lower exits, Archer and T'Pol close behind.

"T'Pol!" Her mother shouted in alarm.

The younger woman paused only a moment to reply. "I'm going with them."

...

The _Enterprise _shook under the fury of battle; three Vulcan warships fired mercilessly, striking the overmatched Starfleet ship with mathematical precision, dealing deadly blows with every drilling shot.

On the bridge, Trip stumbled back into the command chair, no longer able to hold his balance; he gripped the armrests tightly as the ship shook again, nearly tossing him from the chair. To one side, a fiery explosion blew out overhead conduits, sending flaming embers and black smoke across the bridge. To the other side, a bulkhead blew out, shooting centimeters above Soval's head.

"Re-route emergency power to phase cannons!" Trip shouted, scarcely able to turn his head. "Return fire!"

"Hull breach on C-deck!" Hoshi shouted, pulling the critical information from the damage reports. The sudden whine of accelerated current behind her sent Hoshi scrambling to the deck seconds before a power conduit erupted in flame. "They're reporting casualties!" she yelled from the floor.

Malcolm staggered from the lift and fell across the bridge, rapidly assessing the situation; Rahimi was manning tactical, while communications was empty. He altered his trajectory towards the front corner, and slumped across the console as a light flashed brightly. "We're being hailed!" he shouted out, scrambling to identify the signal. "It's V'Las! Audio only!"

"Put him through!" Trip ordered, exhaling once. The hail brought with it a momentary lull in enemy fire. _And since when were the Vulcans "enemy" fire?_

V'Las' disembodied voice snarled across the bridge. "You're overmatched, _Enterprise_," the chief administrator barked. "You're outgunned, your weapons are offline, your engines are failing. Don't force me to destroy your ship."

Trip sat back in his chair. _Damnit, _he thought; but try as he might, he could find no alternative.

"Commander." Soval's voice, still even, carried across the bridge. "Our deaths will not help Captain Archer or T'Pol. The only logical—the only responsible—course of action is to withdraw."

_Damnit. _"Get us the hell out of here!"

...

Together, Jonathan Archer, T'Pol, and the Vulcan woman T'Pau dashed down the side tunnel, running to evade the shockwaves of bombardment that rocked the sanctuary behind them. Around them, the tunnel walls quaked, sending repeated cascades of pebbles and dust raining down on top of them; more than once, a resonant boom rolled down the passage, knocking the threesome from their feet.

In their headlong flight, the three rolled back to their feet and continued, barely able to see in front of themselves. The torches lining the passage flickered and died under the bursts of air; Archer took care to shield his own torch with his body, and hold it steady each time he rolled to the ground and back to his feet.

Around a corner they went, staggering up a path of carved stones that led them into the open air. They pushed forward, heaving frantically, sucking in the thin air of Vulcan; and as they reached the top, the three stepped out onto a small cliff sheltered within the dark ravines of the Forge. Archer fell to the ground, gasping for air, while the two Vulcans helped drag him onto the safety of the ledge.

Together, T'Pau and T'Pol looked downward from their vantage point. Beneath them, the T'Kareth Sanctuary was laid bare under the concussive force of bombardments; the upper rock cover was torn away, and for a moment, they could see the layout of the inner sections, illuminated brightly in the glow of fires. In that moment, the two women stood side-by-side, silent; dozens of Vulcans were dying—were being slaughtered.

Another salvo blanketed the sanctuary, erasing it beneath balls of flame and smoke.

...

The bombardment continued for an hour.

When the last bombs had dropped, and the explosions drifted away, the threesome traveled back down the escape corridor to the main level of the sanctuary. Little remained of the ancient structure; after standing for millennia, it had been blasted down to fine dust and rubble.

T'Pol stepped forward in stunned shock. Scattered around her were the broken remains of Vulcan bodies; severed feet and legs, bloodied torsos, smashed faces and burned crisps. The smell alone nearly overpowered her, forcing her to rest on her knees as she gagged; her feet sank into the ash that minutes earlier had been living beings. Smoke still rose from smoldering entrails, and rivers of green blood cut pathways in the fine rubble. The evacuation had not come quickly enough; here the Syrranites lay, broken and shattered.

A croak to one side caught T'Pol's hearing, and as she turned, her emotional detachment finally collapsed. Frantically, she ran to the source of the noise and heedlessly fell to her knees, deep in ash and blood; she couldn't choke back the panic and fright that surged upward within her.

"I was afraid you were still inside," she whispered to her mother. T'Les lay on the ground beside her; the elder woman clutched herself about her abdomen, holding in the remnants of her sliced intestines. Blood and viscera oozed between T'Les' fingers, coating her torso in the sickly mess.

"It's all right," T'Les whispered softly. "Perhaps, one day, you will see that this must be so."

"I don't understand," T'Pol whispered in reply.

T'Les crunched over, hacking painfully before her body went slack.

...

The _Enterprise _sat outside the 40 Eridani system as the crew set about repairing the wounds of battle. Not far away, three Vulcan cruisers sat blocking the path to Vulcan; but the Starfleet ship was outside of Vulcan space, and the cruiser's commanders seemed little interested in pressing the battle further.

Trip Tucker sat behind the captain's ready room desk, cupping his face in his hands. The pain of failure hung heavy on him, reminding him that he had abandoned two of his closest friends.

"I understand that we suffered casualties," Soval said gently.

"Injuries, but no deaths," Trip replied. It was some comfort, but it didn't take away the pain he felt. "Two of them serious."

"Captain Archer and Commander T'Pol are very competent officers," Soval stated. For a Vulcan, it was the highest praise one could offer. "I am certain that they will be fine."

Trip smiled slightly, appreciating the irony of a Vulcan offering support. "They've been in tough jams before," he added, feeling slightly better. "I always figured that the captain's too strong to die—and T'Pol's just too ornery. What does the High Command have against the Syrranites, anyway?"

Soval shifted in his seat. "Perhaps it is time to explain fully," he said, and he tapped the intercom. "Bring him in."

Perplexed, Trip automatically straightened as the door hissed open. In stepped Malcolm Reed, escorting…Stel?

Trip shot upright. "What's he doing here?" the engineer demanded, pointing a dagger-like finger at the Vulcan.

Stel was unperturbed. "I am here to turn myself in," he answered, and cocked his head slightly. "I believe the phrase is…'turn state's witness'?"

Tucker sank back, still confused. "What's going on here, Ambassador?"

Soval steepled his fingers. "The High Command believe that the Syrranites are subversives, Commander, who must be silenced for the good of Vulcan."

"How are they subversive?" Trip rejoined. His ire was on full view. "From what I see, it's a group of nuts in the middle of a desert!"

"The Syrranites believe that all violence is antithetical to Surak's true teachings," Soval answered patiently. "If their pacifism is allowed to spread, it could undermine the security of Vulcan."

"So why now?" Trip pressed. "I mean, the High Command could've moved a month ago, or a month down the road!"

"Commander, do you recall when V'Las suggested that the Syrranites were in league with the Andorians?" Soval asked.

Trip ran through his memory. "Now that you mention it, yeah. But what does that have to do with anything?"

Stel's own evenness contrasted the force of his words. "The High Command intends to take Vulcan to war with Andoria," he stated. "The alleged connection to the Syrranites is the _cause belli_."

Trip was stunned. "Wait, wait," he exclaimed. "Vulcan and Andoria signed a peace treaty two years ago—we were there for it!"

"V'Las is claiming that the Andorians are developing a weapon to destroy Vulcan," Stel answered flatly. "V'Las is using the claim to press for a pre-emptive strike against Andoria."

Malcolm spoke up for the first time. "He's going to start an interstellar war!" the tactical chief exclaimed. "Vulcan and Andoria are evenly matched—it would devastate both worlds!"

"Indeed," Stel said mildly. "His goal is…quite illogical."

"And that's why you're here," Trip added. Stel's astonishing defection made sense now. "You want to prevent that war."

"Precisely," Stel confirmed.

Trip leaned back as his ire abated. "Okay," he said, letting the syllables drawl as he spoke. "What do we do about it?"

"Commander," Malcolm cut in, "we are under strict orders from Admiral Gardner to return to Earth."

"If I may, Commander," Stel countered, "returning to Earth will render us incapable of preventing the war; and returning to Vulcan is, quite clearly, not feasible. The only logical option remaining is to go to Andoria. Perhaps—" he stretched the word to stress the degree of likelihood—"we'll be able to convince the Andorians to hold off."

_There it is,_ Trip told himself. He wondered momentarily how his career had come to this point; he could either stop a war…or get cashiered from Starfleet into a stockade.

"Commander." Malcolm glanced at the two Vulcans before offering his advice. "I remember the captain once saying that risk is our business."

Trip grinned involuntarily when he realized how easy the decision was. He slapped the desk and stood up quickly. "We're going to Andoria."

...

_Quote from Apollonius of Tyana_


	10. Chapter 9

—**NAUKUH****—**

"If any say [that] he is my disciple, then let him add: he slays no living thing, eats of no flesh, is free from envy, malice, hatred, calumny, and hostile feelings, but has his name inscribed among the race of those who've won their freedom."

-The Hidden _Kir'Shara _of Surak

...

Before the five members of the High Command, like battlefield maps of old, was a broad tabletop projecting a three-dimensional cartographical representation of the near region of space. On it, the local stars, planetary systems, and navigational phenomena were marked by symbol and color; and now, several additional points of light came on to show the location of Vulcan's warships.

V'Las, using a slender pointer, directed attention to a routine red dwarf star identified on Starfleet's maps as GJ 1061. It was sparsely surrounded by the rubble of a failed planetary disc; it possessed nearly no significance, save for its proximity to the Andorian home system. "The Andorians have deployed most of their fleet in defensive positions around Paan Mokar," he stated as the display changed slightly to show the Andorian fleet.

Soketh, nearly stumbling with shock, recovered his equilibrium with trained speed. It was the first time he had seen this strategic information. "We gave them that system when we signed the treaty," he observed. "We made no claim to it. Why would they move their forces there?"

V'Las' face was grim with pride. "They believe we're planning to take it," he answered. "We've been using unmanned probes to generate false warp signatures in the vicinity of that system."

Soketh looked at his colleague with unconcealed oddity and alarm. "Why weren't we informed of this?" he demanded, his voice wavering with ire. "Such a provocative action could start a war!"

V'Las' gray eyes flashed with steel. "Tactical deployments do not require the notice or consent of the High Command." His bearing stiffened sharply. "And doing so could have compromised operational secrecy."

A third administrator, Sivem, entered the discussion with concerns of his own. "But why are we drawing Andorian forces to Paan Mokar?" he asked. "We're only encouraging them to attack us!"

V'Las glared at the administrator for a moment before returning his attention to the strategic display. On it, he traced a line from GJ 1061 to the Andorian home system; and from there, he jogged off at an angle on the far side of Epsilon Eridani to another red dwarf, this one identified on Earth as being Gatewood's Star. "Because our fleet is stationed here," he answered tersely, as if addressing an ignorant plebe.

"How elegant," Sivem observed dryly. The feint effectively placed the bulk of Andoria's forces on the wrong side of Andor, and twice the distance away. "But this deployment encourages the Andorians to attack us."

"Which is why we must strike first," V'Las countered. "Our fleet is now ready to launch an invasion of Andoria itself. We can rid ourselves of their danger once and for all."

Soketh felt his strength slipping away. "There are members of the High Command who are not convinced an invasion is necessary at this time," he objected weakly. He recognized that V'Las was sending Vulcan careening into war, but could find no way of stopping it.

"We know that they have been working on a doomsday weapon," V'Las retorted. His aura seemed to grow as he pressed his case. "We've all seen the data."

"We've seen the data itself," Sivem interjected. "But you have not shown us how it was obtained. We have no manner with which to authenticate it."

"Revealing that information would undermine sensitive intelligence operations." V'Las was not prepared to allow the High Command to pry into matters that fell under his direct authority. "I have seen the authentication myself; I can personally assure you that the data is accurate."

It provided little reassurance to Soketh. "Do you have evidence to show us?" he insisted. "Or do you expect us to go to war based on little more than your assertions?"

"What more evidence do you need?" V'Las pressed back. "Does Vulcan have to be destroyed? You know that the Andorians hate us—they didn't develop this weaponry because they were curious. They intend to use it against us. It is logical for us to launch a pre-emptive strike!"

…

When the door chimed to the captain's ready room, Trip Tucker set down his data padd with relief. Normally, damage reports and repair estimates didn't drive him crazy; but normally, he was personally overseeing it. Now, with the captain and first officer both gone and Trip in temporary command, the repair work fell to his chief assistant, Lieutenant Ashoka Asgoda. "Ashes," as he was known around the engineering bay, was a fully competent engineer; but Trip was hands-on, and he fretted at not being able to tend to the repairs himself.

On Trip's acknowledgement, the door _whooshed _open to the somber face of the officially-disgraced Vulcan ex-ambassador to Earth. With surprisingly calm, Soval entered and assumed a formal posture before the acting captain. "You asked for me, Commander?" he asked.

"Yep," Trip answered, far more casually. It was bizarre, he knew, to be relying on a Vulcan as his chief advisor—but in the last few days he had come to respect Soval's advice. "I've been thinking about this," he said, his southern drawl extending outward. "Once we get to Andoria, we have to convince them that V'Las is planning to attack, but we have little evidence of it. There's no guarantee the Imperial Guard is going to believe us."

"That is a substantial risk," Soval admitted. "The odds of our success _are _low."

Trip refused to ask _how _low. "There is one Andorian who might trust us," Tucker suggested. "At least, he trusts the captain, and the captain trusts me—that oughta count for something, right?"

"I take it that you are referring to Commander Shran?" Soval asked, and received an affirmative. Archer and Shran had a considerable history together—sometimes as friends, sometimes as opponents, but Shran had developed a considerable respect for the human captain.

"Problem is," Trip added, "I have no idea how to find him."

Shran pulled his lips tight before responding. "I may be able to help," he answered. "I believe I know where Shran's ship is."

The Vulcan was unwilling to explain how he knew, but Trip took it in stride. "Good," he answered. "That's one problem down. Now we just gotta take care of the rest." A small yawn broke through.

"If I may, Commander?" Soval asked, waiting to receive permission. "Several members of the crew appear unsettled."

Trip understood; he had seen the same thing. "Some of them are wondering if I'm doing the right thing," he replied. "If I should obey orders and return to Earth, if I should take sides with the High Command…can't say I blame them." The thought made him melancholy. "I'm not sure myself. Hell if I know what the best course of action is; I'm taking shots in the dark here."

Soval quickly placed the metaphor. "Commander," he said carefully, "with respect, you are _not _taking shots in the dark. You are following the course of action that Captain Archer would pursue. And you have always appeared to trust the captain's judgment."

"Well, when you put it like that…" Trip grinned crookedly. "You think I can convince the court martial board that I was really just following the captain's orders?"

Soval raised a bemused eyebrow. "It may be your best chance for acquittal," the Vulcan rejoined.

…

"Our patrol has returned," Soketh stated without preliminaries as he returned to the underground control room. V'Las, Narvel, and Sivem were still present, along with an assortment of military commanders and Security Directorate commandants, and Soketh's declaration attracted the attention of them all. "They captured eight Syrranites from the sanctuary."

V'Las' expression was almost wolfish. "Was Syrran among them?"

"No." Soketh shook his head in sorrow; unlike some Vulcans, he did not relish the prospect of death, not even the death of his enemies. "The patrol did not find his body, but the prisoners confirmed separately that Syrran is dead."

"And we're supposed to believe them?" Narvel retorted.

"The Syrranites do have a reputation for veracity," Sivem observed without inflection. "And if the security forces are satisfied, then it is logical that we accept their word as well."

"That's not all," Soketh added. His voice grew softer with barbed suspicion. "The prisoners say that three other survivors departed just before the bombardment. Including a _human._"

"Archer," V'Las snarled. He spun around angrily in an unsuccessful effort to mask his ire. "I suppose we have no idea where he went? Or if he even survived?"

Soketh eyed the chief administrator carefully. "They said that he is seeking the hidden _Kir'Shara_. That he knows where it is."

Around the room, several others stiffened at the spoken words; the impact was harsh and immediate, casting an instant change in the air. "The Kir'Shara never existed!" V'Las bellowed, pressing back angrily against the current. "These are merely lies from a treasonous sect desperate to undermine the High Command!"

"There are many who believe that it does exist," Sivem countered. His placid expression stood in contrast to the faltering visages around him. "Many of our people are familiar with its story." The danger was understood by all in the room. Vulcans, as a rule, gave little credence to rumor; but the utterance of the _Kir'Shara _was not thrown around lightly. If the Syrranites' claims were allowed to freely spread, it could destroy the trust that the average Vulcan had for the High Command.

"The Syrranites claim that they are following the true path of Surak," Soketh added. "If the _Kir'Shara _is real, it could prove them right!"

V'Las wheeled and glared at the other administrator. "Are you an apostate, Soketh?" he barked with surprising fury. "Do you challenge the teachings of the Elders?"

The room went stone silent as the accusation was uttered; challenging the teachings of the Elders was tantamount to questioning Vulcan itself. There were fewer worse crimes, and many drawn breaths hung on Soketh's response.

"No," Soketh said quietly, backing down from the confrontation. "I am merely concerned about the impact it may have on our people."

"You have no reason to be concerned," V'Las retorted. "The Kir'Shara doesn't exist! You've been falling for Syrranite subterfuge, Minister. Now leave, before you pollute these noble minds with more of that filth!"

Meekly, Soketh turned and left the room, leaving an unsettled gathering in his wake. The legends of the _Kir'Shara _were well-known, even among the highest ranks of the military and Security Directorate. The mere act of postulating its existence caused suspicion to grow deep within; V'Las' authority was partially based on his claim to represent the only correct teachings of Surak. If the _Kir'Shara _was found…the ever-logical Vulcan mind realized that V'Las' authority might be based on lies.

V'Las followed the departing minister, his eyes shooting daggers into Soketh's back. For this to come up _now_, on the eve of war…Soketh was a danger to all of Vulcan.

…

In the stratospheric depths beneath the floor of the Forge, the vast sandstone deposits were riddled with tunnels and passages, some small, some large; some wet, some dry; and all dark. The light of their torches, however, lit up the ancient corridors as the trio passed downward through centuries of habitation and beyond those lower limit, as Archer, T'Pol, and T'Pau threaded their way in pursuit of the hidden _Kir'Shara._

Her thoughts elsewhere, T'Pol stumbled along the uneven floor. The scuffling noise drew the attention of "the Vulcan woman" T'Pau. "There are other Syrranites in the mountains," the young woman offered. Her voice carried little sensitivity, but great certitude. "They'll care for the wounded at the sanctuary."

Archer, too, glanced over at his first officer. He knew the wounded were not the cause of her imbalance; even stoic Vulcans had to deal with death, and T'Pol's own emotional control was still shaky following a year in the Delphic Expanse. She was masking her pain well, under the circumstances; but he knew it was eating within her. The ache of her mother's recent death, combined with the friction between the two, had to be slicing away inside.

"How far to the capital?" Archer asked suddenly, hoping to shift T'Pol's focus to something less profound.

"Several days," T'Pau answered flatly. "A strong Vulcan can make the walk in six." The implications were allowed to hang unsaid; T'Pol was far from in peak condition, and the captain's own endurance was still unknown. The _katra_ within him gave him added strength, no doubt; but how much?

"Why the capital?" T'Pol asked in confusion. It made little sense to walk into the lair of their enemies. "We need to get back to the _Enterprise_."

Archer swung his torch around a shallow curve in the tunnel, illuminating a new passageway. "Once we find the _Kir'Shara_," he replied, "we need to take it to the capital."

"Captain, isn't our priority to tell Starfleet what we've learned about the Embassy bombing?" T'Pol pressed. Her voice faded for a second, then returned strongly as she rounded the bend.

T'Pau joined in. "The _Kir'Shara _contains Surak's original writings," she explained with surprising patience. "It's the only surviving record of his true teachings, many of which conflict the modern orthodoxy. Revealing it publicly will have an enormous impact on all of Vulcan…and likely topple the High Command."

…

The trickling sound of water could be heard from a distance away, but the trio was nearly upon it before, at last, realizing that they had found something incredibly rare on the desert planet: in the middle of a cavern, spread over several meters of area while only a couple centimeters deep, lay a pool of fresh water. The torch light revealed a steady drip from the rock ceiling overhead, plummeting downward in fat, wet drops.

By unspoken agreement, the travelers paused in the cavern for a brief rest.

"The _Enterprise _will be scanning for us at the transport coordinates," T'Pol remarked as she sat down on the stone floor. Perhaps unintentionally, her legs were crossed in perfect lotus technique. "One of us should return there."

Archer had his head turned upward, and was pouring cool water over the dirt and grime of his face. "It's too dangerous," he answered. "I'm the only one here who knows the way through these tunnels. We need to stick together, T'Pol." _And, _he added silently, he wanted to keep her close, so he could keep an eye on her own emotional balance.

T'Pol tried to arch an eyebrow, but her muscles wouldn't cooperate. "Why is it so urgent that we stop the High Command?" she asked, vocalizing her objection. "If we return to the _Enterprise _first, at least they won't be able to arrest us."

"We have to act before they go to war," Archer answered. He spit out a mouthful of water; his inner Vulcan berated him for the waste, but his inner human relished the rare opportunity.

T'Pol took care not to fidget as the other woman touched T'Pol's neck glands in a quick physical check-up. "_What _war?" she asked, wondering if her captain had lost what little sense he had left.

Archer sighed and took a long dram of water. "Remember when V'Las suggested that the Syrranites were in league with the Andorians?" he asked.

T'Pol nodded in confirmation; it was only a few days earlier, and her memory was firmly Vulcan. "But we settled our disputes with the Andorians nearly two years ago," she observed.

T'Pau added her companion a newly-filled canteen. "Drink this," she commanded to T'Pol. "Our…friends in Shi'Kahr have told us that V'Las intends to start a new war with Andoria."

T'Pol took a small sip. "Such an action would be quite illogical," she responded, showing her skepticism. "How do you know this information is accurate?"

"I've spoken with them myself," Archer answered. He met T'Pol's gaze with a friendly smile. "Yes, _Syrran _talked to them personally. Some of his memories were transferred in the meld."

"Captain!" T'Pol objected, trying to jump to her feet. T'Pau's firm hands held the science officer steady as she stumbled.

"You think I've lost my mind, don't you?" Archer answered wryly.

With assistance, T'Pol caught her balance without falling into the pool. "I'm not certain that _your _mind is the one making these decisions," she rejoined. "You need to return to the ship for medical treatment. Once we find the artifact, T'Pau can return it to Shi'Kahr."

Archer shook his head. A bemused expression of patience and tolerance was written across his face. "I was chosen for this, T'Pol," he answered. "This is my task. It must be this way." The last phrase came out as a murmur.

"Chosen?" T'Pol replied with mock surprise. "An interesting choice of words. You were simply the only person that Syrran could reach."

"If I were in your shoes, I'd be just as skeptical," Archer answered as he slowly pulled himself to his feet. The break was over; it was time for them to continue. "I'm not possessed, and I'm not delusional," he added.

"Then how would you describe it?" T'Pol rejoined. Despite the forcefulness of her objections, however, she moved with the captain, following him to the far exit from the cavern. T'Pau took up her usual position in the middle, and together, the trio re-entered the claustrophobic tunnels.

Archer's torch continued to burn brightly as he waved it back and forth. Several different corridors branched out, and he selected the left-most one without hesitation. "Guided," he decided. "I'd describe it as being guided."

"Guided to what end?" T'Pol retorted, keeping up the debate. She was only a couple paces behind, but the two bodies before her nearly blocked the light.

"There are great forces at work on your world, T'Pol," Archer replied. "_Dvatai _and _e'shua_ seeking control of Vulcan's soul. The blind seek to rule the faithful. This is not the way that Surak intended."

"So why now?" T'Pol pressed. Following the lead of the other two, she ducked low; the ceiling of the tunnel dropped momentarily.

"Because they are winning," Archer replied. The words drifted back over his shoulder. "And if we fail, Vulcan will be consumed. But this is also the ripe moment—it is the understanding of the _Ni'Var_."

T'Pol growled softly.

"Archer!" T'Pau said suddenly, shocking the captain to a halt. "Don't move!"

He did as commanded. The torch light reflected off of sparkling deposits on both sides of the passageway. "What are those?" he asked, recognizing the unspecified danger.

"Gallacite deposits," T'Pau answered. "Are you in possession of anything metallic?"

Archer slipped a knife from his belt. "Just this."

T'Pau took the knife and calmly threw it ahead of them; as it crossed the plane of the deposits, a sharp web of electrical discharges shot out, zapping the knife and dropping it to the floor. "There," she stated. "It will take a while for the charge to regenerate. We can pass through safely."

"Thanks for the warning," Archer answered.

…

On the far side of Vulcan, only some ten or so light-years from that planet, resides a miniature collection of gas and dust. Sized far smaller than most known nebulae, and invisible save from close distances, it nonetheless possessed a rogue collection of heavy, rocky objects towards the center. Together, as tens of thousands of years passed, these objects pulled together to form a gravitational sink; it pulled in raw materials from the surrounding cloud, and as it did so, the cloud's center began to rotate.

As it spun, the core's speed and temperature began to increase, concentrating the molecules with increasing pressure and density into a goopy mass. As heat continued to build, the core became tighter, and as unmeasured time passed, it passed the threshold meter of 10,000° C—the ignition point for stellar nuclear fusion. Burning fiercely now, the protostar fused together the nuclei of hydrogen to form helium.

Still in the formative stage, the Agosoria Nebula—the Agosoria protostar—would not become a main sequence star for thousands of additional years. Instead, in the center of the gaseous cloud, it had carved out a bubble thousands of AUs wide, in which the star began to gather a protoplanetary disk about it.

Interestingly, in a phenomena seen in several protostars, Agosoria emitted a colossal burst of energy on a roughly-eleven year cycle, earning it the nomenclature of "The Great Plume of Agosoria."

As the _Enterprise _arrived on the outskirts of the brilliant red gases, Trip couldn't help but feel an increasing level of concern. They had come a considerable distance out of their way, leaving both Vulcan and Andoria light-years behind; if Shran wasn't located here, they could easily find themselves too far away to rescue to rescue the captain and T'Pol and prevent a war. At the same time, Trip knew that it was a little late to start doubting Soval.

"Any sign of Andorian ships?" Trip asked as the ship slowed to a halt outside the nebula.

Ensign Verena Jordan, handling T'Pol's post at science, fielded the inquiry. "Sensors can't read more than a few kilometers inside the nebula, sir," she reported.

"Open a channel," Soval stated unemotionally. He and Trip stood together in the well of the bridge, contemplating the view before them.

Trip's words caught as he moved to give the order. "Wait…to who?"

Soval turned to look at his new colleague with an expression of obviousness. "To the nebula, of course."

"Of course," Trip responded dryly, and he nodded at Hoshi. "Open a general channel," he ordered.

"This is Ambassador Soval of Vulcan," Soval declared. His words went out in every direction, on every main channel. "I've come on an urgent mission regarding peace and war. I must speak with Commander Shran."

Silence returned. Trip glanced at Hoshi, who shrugged in response; she couldn't tell if anyone was picking up the message.

Soval tried again. "The High Command has decrypted your security protocols," he proclaimed, violating a considerable number of security secrets in the process. "We are well aware that your task force is hiding in this nebula."

The red gas remained silent. "Maybe your information's out of date," Trip whispered.

Soval shook his head slightly. "He's in there."

Trip sighed and stepped closer to the microphone pickup. "This is Commander Tucker of the _Enterprise_," he announced. "We've got some information you're going to want to hear." He waited a second. "I think a common friend of ours would want us to talk."

"Sir," Lieutenant Mayweather announced suddenly. "I'm detecting some movement."

"I have it," Ensign Jordan added a moment later. With a couple quick commands, she focused the main viewscreen on a small portion of the gas cloud; from within, three dark shadows could be seen.

"Well, well," Trip said softly as the objects emerged, coalescing into three Andorian warships. "Looks like we got them after all."

"We're being hailed," Hoshi announced.

"On screen," Trip ordered. The nebula disappeared. In its place was a single person: blue skin, white hair, and two antennae sticking straight upwards.

"Commander Tucker," Shran answered sardonically. "You have a poor choice of friends."

"An _invasion_?" Shran barked in disbelief. Following his arrival on the _Enterprise,_ the Andorian commander had been escorted to the main conference room on deck E; but now, as he heard the words from Commander Tucker and Ambassador Soval, he wasn't sure if it was worth it.

"That's correct," Soval answered patiently.

It earned him a snarl from the agitated Andorian. "We keep a very close eye on your fleet," Shran rejoined. "We would know if the High Command were preparing to attack."

"And your leaders believe the Vulcan fleet is near the _Paan Mokar_ system," Trip interjected. His tongue tripped over the unfamiliar words. "Frankly, Commander, they've fooled your surveillance."

"V'Las has been assembling ships _here_," Soval added. He pointed to the computerized map, indicating the Gatewood system. "Well within striking range of Andoria."

Shran's antennae recoiled. "Your leaders may be fools, but they're not suicidal," he hissed into the Vulcan's face. "They know we will respond!"

Soval's stoic expression faltered momentarily, giving him the look of someone who had just eaten a sour _kaasa _fruit. "They believe it is worth it," he said softly. "Chief Administrator V'Las claims that the Andorian Imperial Guard is building a doomsday weapon."

"And that you plan to use it," Trip added. "It makes a pre-emptive strike downright… logical." He mirrored Soval's puckered expression.

Shran spit fury for several seconds before discrete words came about. "That's absurd!" he shouted. "Our policy towards Vulcan is one of defense, not aggression—and definitely not annihilation!"

Soval shifted his eyes before he replied. "The information reported to the High Command is slightly different."

"You _Vulcans_," Shran hissed furiously. "You're so used to lying, you don't even tell the truth to each other!" His eyes narrowed suddenly. "How do I know that you weren't sent here as a diversion?"

"You don't," Soval answered flatly.

"Do you have any idea what will happen when the Imperial Guard retaliates?" Shran barked. Trip cringed, waiting for the storm. "It will be a disaster! For both our worlds!"

_Whoa, _Trip thought. _That took a different turn._

Soval recovered his discipline in the face of the Andorian's anger. "Which is why you must convince your leaders to intercept our fleet."

Shran's antennae twisted about, showing his doubt. "You're betraying your own people by telling me this," he hissed.

"Actions taken to support peace are never betrayal," Soval answered calmly. His eyes found Shran's. "And this is the only logical course remaining to support peace."

Shran's throat uttered a tortured noise of disgust. "What exactly do you hope to accomplish with this?" he demanded, looking upward; he was now within arm's-length of the taller Vulcan.

"The High Command's battle plan depends on the element of surprise," Soval answered. "Once they realize that they have lost that element, Administrator V'Las will be forced to postpone the invasion."

Trip stepped back in. "And postponing it gives us a chance to thwart it completely."

Shran's gaze returned to the battle map. "When does this invasion begin?" he asked, somewhat grudgingly.

Soval's answer was short. "Soon."

"That's the best you can give me?" Shran retorted, his head wheeling around. "Soon?"

"Very soon," Soval replied.

Shran snarled again before turning to Trip Tucker. "Do you believe him, pinkskin?"

Trip nodded first. "I wouldn't be here if I didn't," he added. "And the captain left me in command here—he trusts my judgment." It was a convoluted method of vouching, but it did the trick.

Shran's antennae bobbed. "I'll need to consult with my superiors," he admitted finally.

Trip understood. "I suggest you do it fast," he added.

…

Some time later—minutes, hours, days—the trio found themselves temporarily halted in another deep cavern; the captain's human physiology needed to rest, and under the command of his companions, Archer lay slumped against a companionable rock. He dozed off within minutes.

"There's an extensive security grid around the capital," T'Pol said quietly as she sidled up to T'Pau; the captain appeared to be sleeping soundly, but T'Pol did not want to disturb him. "It's unlikely we'll get past it."

T'Pau herself was sitting on a second rock, roughly the size and shape of a footstool. Its striations could be clearly seen; it looked like a hundred sheets of stone, one fastened atop the next. She balanced precisely on the small surface. "We'll find a way," she answered, not opening her eyes. The torch cast lengthy shadows on her face; the light was to her side, propped up against the cavern's wall. "Surak will help us."

T'Pol snorted softly.

T'Pau's eyes opened. "You don't believe in the _katra._" It was neither question nor accusation; it came out simply as a confirmation of fact.

"It is irrelevant what I believe," T'Pol answered. She felt herself twitching involuntarily; it had been a long time since her last meditation, and her own control was faltering. "The captain could be permanently injured if we don't get him to a doctor soon."

T'Pau glanced over the resting human. "He doesn't need a physician, he needs a priest," she corrected. "One experienced with _katras_."

T'Pol tried to stifle her rising ire, but found herself unable to stem the wave. "It's illogical that we're following someone in his state of mind!" she retorted, her voice rising. "What if he dies before we can get help?"

The raised eyebrows of the Syrranite leader shamed T'Pol into abashed apology. "I am sorry," she said, looking away. "My mother's death has affected me more than I realized."

T'Pau nodded with understanding. "It was a great loss," she replied kindly. "T'Les and I disagreed frequently, but I valued her counsel. She cared for you quite deeply, T'Pol," she added quietly.

T'Pol bit her lower lip, unable to respond. "I could allow you to experience what she shared with me," T'Pau suggested.

T'Pol stepped away in shock. "You melded with her?" she answered demandingly. The very idea repulsed her—entering into another's mind, prying away the deepest boundaries and unveiling the darkest secrets, possibly losing a part of yourself beneath the force of the other… She felt the resistance draining within her, and resorted to her final rationalization. "I cannot meld," T'Pol stated.

T'Pau arose and stepped towards her new companion. "I would initiate it," she offered.

T'Pol shook her head; that wasn't the point. She sat down on the stool with her elbows on her knees, hiding her face in her hands. "That's not what I mean," she replied. The embarrassment and shame was strong inside of her. "I was…forced to participate in a meld several years ago." Her memories of the rape almost overpowered her.

"And you are still haunted by it," T'Pau acknowledged with understanding.

"I was infected with a neural disease," T'Pol added crossly. "If I meld again, I will pass it along."

"Pa'nar Syndrome?" T'Pau asked. "Do you still suffer from it?"

The healer's frankness caught T'Pol by surprise. "There's no cure," she answered forcefully.

"That's not entirely true," T'Pau replied. "The High Command disavows the cure—and the disease—but it has been known to us since Surak's time. It is not a disease; it is a mental disruption, caused by melders who have been improperly trained."

T'Pol's eyes widened involuntarily. "Is there something you can do?" she whispered. She could scarcely believe it—she wouldn't believe it, unless she saw the proof.

"Yes," T'Pau answered. "I know how to correct the neurological imbalance."

"Please," T'Pol whispered. _Please, _she begged; relieve me of this suffering!

T'Pau came before the suffering woman and lowered herself to her knees. "Relax," she said calmly, allowing her voice to assume a soothing resonance. The healer reached out with her hands, gently laying her fingertips on T'Pol's face.

"My mind to your mind," T'Pau said softly. The energy charges flowed back and forth, sparking the connection between them. "My thoughts to your thoughts." Their breathing fell into syncopated rhythm. "Our minds are merging." Gently, refusing to press, T'Pau reached out into T'Pol's mind.

"Our minds are one," T'Pol whispered.

…

Trip Tucker was sitting back in the captain's desk chair, his feet up and reclined; snoozing softly, his subconscious mind was playing in happier moments of years far gone. As kids, he and his kid sister Lizzie spent little time at home; they only had their mother, and she was an abusive drunk. Consequently, the two kids skipped out every chance they had, and lived their own version of an idyllic childhood running free in the open air of Florida. Together, they became best friends, relying on each other for support and escape.

Trip shivered slightly as the dreams progressed. He grew up, and departed for Starfleet; Lizzie went to the university, and became an architect. They saw each other less and less, but nonetheless drew strength from their sibling bond. And Lizzie finally found her romantic match, and was preparing to settle into a new life.

Then the Xindi came—the aliens from far-distant regions of the sky, driven by stoked fear to destroy Earth. Their first attack—little more than a trial run—annihilated swathes of Florida, including Trip's childhood home. And his sister.

Consequently, the _Enterprise_ embarked on a blind pursuit into the Delphic Expanse, hoping to prevent the impending second attack—the one that would destroy his homeworld. It was a brutal voyage in every manner possible, and bottling his grief did Trip few favors. It took the prolonged assistance of T'Pol to allow the grief to emerge slowly, and work his way through it. He owed the Vulcan woman more than he could enunciate; she had become his lifeline in very dark days.

His dream shifted to the Vulcan homeworld, months earlier. Following their return from the Expanse, the crew was given several months of downtime to recover; and chasing the ghosts of his mind, Trip had followed T'Pol back to Vulcan, hoping to gain an understanding of the relationship between the two of them.

Then he met her fiancée. Shortly thereafter, T'Pol and Koss were married. Trip was sucker-punched.

As Trip stood there, watching the wedding, he couldn't figure out why Malcolm Reed was trying to hail him.

"Damnit!" Trip exclaimed as he nearly fell out of the desk chair. The intercom beeped again. "Tucker here!" he called out, slapping the panel. "What is it?"

Malcolm's voice was terse. "We have a problem, Commander," he answered.

…

_Quote from Apollonius of Tyana_


	11. Chapter 10

—**LEHKUH****—**

"But first you must purify yourselves from the mindless torments of matter, which force the man who is confined to the prison of the body to suffer by the way of the passions."

-The Hidden _Kir'Shara _of Surak

Deep inside the warship _Kumari, _in defiance of the need to maximize utilization aboard a starship, was a spacious room. It was several meters in diameter, shaped a rough cross between a circle and an octagon; most of the walls were covered with transparent plasticine which revealed cool blue lighting beneath. The lights seemed to pulse and throb, as if emitting an energy field; the lighting effect itself was dim, scarcely enough for the room. Several vertical banks of standard white lights supplemented them.

To one side was a control panel; and in the center of the room was a solitary chair. It looked like something belonging to a different age and time; the cushioned metal frame had a series of clamps and straps running the length, and the headrest contained movable instruments that could be positioned about the occupant's head.

The ship's intercom opened into the room. "Bridge to Commander Shran," a voice called out.

"This is Shran," the commander acknowledged. He was in the chamber with two of his officers. "Report."

"We've isolated Soval. It was more difficult than we expected—we found _two _Vulcan biosignatures on the _Enterprise_."

Shran frowned; the information was perplexing, to say the least. "What about the second signature?" he asked at last. "Is it alone?"

"No," his aide answered. "But Soval is alone in his quarters."

_That'll do for now, _Shran decided quickly; he disliked belaboring decisions. "And you're certain the _Enterprise _won't detect the transport?" he demanded.

"Yes, Commander," his aide answered. "All they'll see is a brief energy surge; they'll think it came from the nebula."

"Very well," Shran acknowledged, and he unconsciously stepped back from the chair. "Energize when ready."

…

Vulcan mental disciplines are potent things, generally overwhelming all but the most instinctive of reactions. Controlling the process of waking up was, quite literally, child's play; it was something that Vulcan children mastered early in life. Thus, as Soval's body registered the transportation, it did not startle or shock him from his slumber; instead, the ambassador's breathing remained steady, and as he brought himself to wakefulness, Soval gave no indication of surprise or alarm.

Not even the gun pointed at Soval disturbed him.

"Welcome aboard, Ambassador," Shran offered sarcastically. With a jerk of his hand, he pulled the second officer in, and together they made quick work of fastening the restraints.

Soval resisted the urge to test the manacles—even a cursory examination indicated that they would not yield. His success would have to come elsewhere. "If you're expecting me to plead for mercy, you'll be waiting a long time," he observed dispassionately.

"I have no interest in your subservience," Shran rejoined. He moved around behind the chair and pulled the ambassador's head back, binding it into place. "I simply want to know your fleet's actual location," he added soothingly.

"I've already given it to you," Soval countered. His breathing and heart rate remained intentionally steady.

"Then consider this our way of confirming what you've told us." Shran moved the headpieces forward, centering them on either side of the Vulcan's cranium. "You didn't expect the Imperial Guard to mobilize its entire fleet based on nothing more than your word, did you?" he scoffed.

Soval tried to move his head infinitesimally, but the restraints held tight. "We spent weeks arguing over details in our treaty negotiations," the ambassador observed. "Did I ever mislead you?"

Shran's antennae dipped downward. "No," he admitted quietly. "But my superiors do not have the same experience with you." It was as close to an explanation—and apology—as he could get.

It saddened Soval inside, but he understood; Shran had his duty, just as Soval did. "You must know that torture is rarely effective against Vulcans," he stated, changing his course of rhetorical battle. "Our mental disciplines allow us to suppress pain."

Shran almost chuckled. "The myth of Vulcans," he retorted. "Our security division has had a great deal of experience extracting information from Vulcan operatives, and we learned something along the way; your so-called discipline is a lot weaker than you'd care to admit. This machine—" he waved at the head pieces around Soval. "This machine doesn't cause physical discomfort. It uses a neuroactive resonance wave to amplify your emotions far past your threshold."

Shran gave a curt order to the operator and the machine activated, emitting a stream of blue light from either side directly at the ambassador's temples. "Tell me, Vulcan," Shran said with mocking barb, "how do you _feel_?"

Soval's face began to cringe, losing its typically-impassive expression. His heart rate shot up, and his breathing became rapid; involuntarily, feelings of panic and fear began to rise up within.

"I've seen Vulcans who were broken by this device," Shran hissed. He came close, staring directly into Soval's eyes. "They were never the same again; broken, shattered, emotional wrecks…I have no desire to see that happen to you." His words became insouciant. "But you must tell me something: _where is your fleet?_" Shran bellowed the last.

"I told you." Soval's voice shook in terror as his body began to quake; surges of chemicals washed up and down his nervous system, sending every muscle into an amplified state of alertness and panic. "Our ships are assembling near Gatewood." Gasping for air, his thoughts began to burn as the machine was cranked up. "Release me!"

"Not until I'm certain you've told us the truth," Shran murmured. "Now, why would these supposedly-_logical _Vulcans want to start a war of mutual destruction?"

"_I don't know!_" Soval screamed out. Misery and terror ripped through his voice with pain and anguish. Green veins beneath his skin grew and expanded, and several capillaries burst out. _"It—is—illogical!_"

"And I'm supposed to accept that?" Shran snarled angrily.

"_Why—why—why don't you increase—the setting,_" Soval gasped, "_and get this OVER with?"_

"You are a brave man, Ambassador," Shran whispered softly before turning to the operator. He gave the command to turn the machine higher.

Soval's world disappeared in a scream.

…

Beneath the unrelenting desert of Vulcan's Forge, the sandstone structures were surprisingly cool and damp; deposits of rarified water had, over the eons, carved out the intricate honeycomb of passageways that spread across hundreds of kilometers in dizzying labyrinth. It was an environment far more suited for a human than a Vulcan, but the two natives did not complain; climate endurance was a simple feat, taught early in Vulcan childhood.

Occasionally, however, the trio crossed into a passageway that was unusually heated, drawing warmth from some unknown geologic structure. The captain refused to go around; the route to the _Kir'Shara _led straight through, and varying the path—however slightly—would draw them helplessly away from their destination.

At the same time, as the trio emerged from one of these tunnels, Archer paused to wipe the sweat from his brow. His desert fatigues, covered in dirt, were stained dark with sweat.

"Captain, you need to rest," T'Pol stated, concerned about his welfare. The captain was visibly weakening; his kind was not meant to thrive on Vulcan, not even deep under the surface.

Archer raised a canteen to his mouth and took a long, slow drink. "Thanks," he said lightly, "but I'll be fine."

T'Pol glared at him. "The atmosphere is thinner than you're used to," she countered. "The medication that Dr. Phlox provided must be running out. If you don't stop soon, you'll collapse."

Archer looked at her and smiled. "If you need a break, T'Pol, you should say so."

"I'll scout ahead," T'Pau cut in, sealing the issue with an implicit command. Before either of her companions could object, T'Pau turned and slid down the tunnel; her torch light disappeared around the bend.

Gratefully, Archer fell to the stone floor, propping himself up against the wall. His body was drained, but not defeated; an unheard-of reservoir of strength kept propelling him forward, refusing to let him quit. _Although_, he recognized wryly, _when we do get back to the ship, I'm taking a long, hot shower._

T'Pol sat down across from him. The petite Vulcan woman was scarcely winded from their most recent trek. "Have you had any more conversations with Surak?" she asked, almost conversationally.

"Not in a couple hours," Archer replied. He broke into a soft laugh.

T'Pol squinted her eyes at him. "Is something amusing?"

"A lot of things are amusing, T'Pol." The captain took another dram from the canteen, and handed it to T'Pol. "Of all the people who could've carried this _katra_…" The sentiment finished itself.

T'Pol took a small sip of the cool liquid. "I doubt you were Syrran's first choice," she countered. They had been over it before, but she was still unwilling to accept the presence of any intent in the merging.

"Drink up," Archer commanded. "Even Vulcans need _some _water. I should know by now." He let his head fall back against the wall in exhaustion. "You know, ever since the meld, I've felt more…centered. It's hard to explain."

"Please try to," T'Pol rejoined. She was not a psychiatrist, but she was still deeply concerned about the captain's mental condition.

Archer sighed in bemusement. "My whole life, I've never really understood Vulcans," he commented. It was a gross understatement; the walls they erected had been completely impermeable to the young Jonathan Archer. The Vulcans he interacted with—and there had been several—had been little more than one-dimensional cutouts. "Why they work so hard to suppress their emotions," he added. "Now it all makes sense."

"How so?" T'Pol asked curiously.

"It was never about suppression," Archer answered calmly. "It's about transcendence, isn't it?" He chuckled again. "Next thing you know, I'll be joining you for meditation."

T'Pol's silence was profound.

Archer felt the unspoken weight. "After we get back, you might want to take a closer look at the Syrranites' philosophy," he suggested.

"Why?" T'Pol replied defensively.

"It was important to your mother," the captain offered in reason, hoping that his words would encourage her. "There might be something to it."

T'Pol seemed to shrink into the shadows. "There are many splinter groups who claim to follow the true path of Surak," she replied with rote-like precision. "I can find no evidence that this one's any different."

"That's only because we haven't found the _Kir'Shara_ yet," Archer countered with a smile. He pushed himself away from the wall and rose to a crouch. "I would've thought you'd be more sympathetic to their cause," he added with interest. "You never seemed too happy with the status quo on Vulcan."

"I am a loyal Vulcan," T'Pol rejoined with anger. "I may have had disagreements with the High Command, but I'm not going to betray my people by signing up with some radical faction!"

"That seems to be a false dichotomy." Archer's demeanor was temporarily that of a professor. "Logically, isn't it possible to break with the High Command, yet remain loyal to Vulcan? The two aren't identical, are they?"

T'Pol trembled slightly. "On Vulcan, they are."

Archer accepted the rebuke. "I'm sorry. It's…been awhile since that sort of mindset prevailed on Earth. But, T'Pol, you _did _sign up with Starfleet." He steepled his fingers, thinking as he spoke. "A lot of Vulcans I've met consider _us _a radical faction. It seems as though your words and your actions are not precisely aligning."

"This has nothing to do with me!" T'Pol shot back, jumping to her feet. The captain's suggestions bit far too deep, exposing suppressed threads of dissonance within her mind. "This is about you believing that you carry Surak's _katra_!"

A calm voice intruded. "Am I interrupting?" T'Pau asked. She had been standing around the corner, waiting for the appropriate moment to intervene. "I suggest that we continue. We have a long way to go still."

Archer looked at her, and a degree of understanding passed between the two. "Good idea, T'Pau," he replied, rising to his own feet.

The captain picked up his torch, and holding it strongly before him, resumed his trek deeper beneath the surface.

…

"What is it?" Trip demanded the second his feet hit the bridge. The senior crew—with Ensign Jordan sitting in for T'Pol—was on duty and alert, but Malcolm telegraphed a degree of nervousness.

"We're receiving a long-distance hail, sir," Lieutenant Reed answered. His lips were drawn tight. "From the _Columbia._"

"The _Columbia_?" Trip asked in confusion. The _Columbia_, their sister ship, was still supposed to be in dry dock undergoing final construction details; what would it be doing out here, over twenty light-years from Earth? "Is she close enough for real-time?" he asked, directing the question at Hoshi.

"Yes, sir," Hoshi answered. Her voice was tight as well. "Should I put it on screen?"

Trip glanced back at Malcolm and steeled himself. "On screen, Hoshi," he ordered.

The view of the nebula disappeared, replaced with the face of a middle-aged woman, her thick black hair pulled back. "This is Captain Erika Hernandez," she announced, even though it was but a formality. Starfleet was a close-knit family; she and the crew of the _Enterprise_ knew each other well. "Commander, I've been sent to take command of your ship, place you in custody, and return you to Earth."

"Well, shit," Trip muttered.

…

"Let me out of here!" Soval screamed in fright as his body fought the restraints. Chemicals pumped into his muscles, jacking up his panicked strength, but the manacles still held; around each clasp, green blood started to flow where his skin rubbed raw. His head twisted and turned between the induction beams, but he could find no escape.

"I can't," Shran countered firmly. "Not yet."

"I'll tear the antennae from your skull!" Soval bellowed. His terror momentarily channeled into furious anger, but it instantly reverted to abject fear. He could think of little more than headlong flight, but he could not break free; and in his mind, neurons burned madly under the pressure, ripping precious connections to shreds.

"If this interrogation continues, your suppression system will be permanently damaged!" Shran shouted. "Tell me what I want to know, and I can end it!"

"I already told you!" Soval shot back. "Aren't you enjoying this, Commander? Haven't you imagined me in this chair many times?"

"That's not far from the truth," Shran answered, chortling. "But after our rather interminable peace talks…I have no desire to harm you, Ambassador."

"Then trust me!" Soval tried to clench his teeth tight, but found himself unable to hold on.

Shran stepped closer. "_Where _is your fleet?" he demanded again, sending spittle into the Vulcan's face.

Suddenly, Soval chuckled and fell back in the chair; in that moment, his mind had finally caught up with the induced waves and shut them off, leaving him in a place of calm and serenity. He could sense the fires still burning in his mind, but they were detached somehow, far distant; he could see the pain, but no longer felt it. "Do you know the story of Nirak?" he asked, seemingly apropos of nothing.

"What?" Shran replied in confusion. "What does that have to do with anything?" he demanded irately, staying within the Vulcan's immediate space.

Soval laughed lightly. Even to him, it was a strange sound; he could not recall the last time he had actually laughed—or if, indeed, he ever had. "Nirak was a soldier on Vulcan," the ambassador recalled, pulling the story from his memory. "Before the time Surak, when the clans still feuded over the desart."

Shran's eyes slitted in anger. "So what?"

Soval took a moment to breath before continuing. "Nirak was standing watch over the gates of the City of Gol one afternoon, when he saw a cloud on the horizon moving toward him," the ambassador went on. His words were quiet, but they held the Andorians spellbound. "He thought it was a sandstorm, so he told no one."

"And what happened?" Shran asked, his ire transmuting into curiosity.

"It was an army," Soval answered. He barked in strangled laughter. "The army destroyed the city, but they decided to let Nirak live. His name now means 'fool' in our language, Commander, just as yours soon will in Andorian!"

Shran straightened backward in fury. "Turn up the machine!" he bellowed, and Soval's world washed out in white.

…

Deep within the musty tunnels of rock far below the floor of Vulcan's Forge, Jonathan Archer pressed on, navigating the bewildering array of passageways and endless spurs with the natural confidence of a Vulcan borne to the labyrinth. Tunnel after tunnel, turn after turn, through slim gaps and gaping caverns, he led the way without faltering; he knew they were getting close, and would not relent.

Their way was lit by torches, grabbed during their passage through the upper corridors that formed the lowest regions of the now-destroyed sanctuary. The torches flamed brightly, illuminating the rock walls with strong, brilliant light; great cobwebs hung down about them, and many critters could be heard skittering away from the glow of fire. With care, the travelers avoided igniting the spidery webs, and the torches continued to burn, as though possessing endless fuel.

Deep inside, potentially kilometers deep, the air grew damp and chilly. The two Vulcan women, bred to the desert above, shivered slightly but bore the discomfort; physical detachment was among the most elementary of Vulcan disciplines. For Archer, if he stopped to contemplate it, the contrast was dissonant in his mind; the human captain had been born on the Maine seacoast, while the Vulcan _katra _he carried had journeyed the endless sands in the heat of Nevasa.

Hours passed unmeasured; perhaps days. Even the sharp senses of the Vulcans soon lost track as they became enveloped in the task. Short respites were taken, to replenish their strength, but these beings possessed remarkable endurance; they showed no signs of tiring, and pressed on with unrelenting fortitude.

Gradually, as they reached the putrid regions of long-unseen tunnels, sharp eyes began to notice etchings in the rock walls around them. At first few, they consisted of little more than a handful of unfamiliar characters, and perhaps a diagram or two; nonetheless, the captain paused to examine these markings closely, as if he could decipher the ancient, well-worn writing. Each time, he would nod in affirmation, as if the scrawls were signposts confirming that the travelers were on the correct route.

Another distance passed through these scribbled walls before the captain's torch, held in front, illuminated a rectangular doorway carved in the sandstone. Easily accommodating a Vulcan, a set of brittle hinges was fastened to either side; doubtlessly, the pile of sand lying across the threshold was the remnants of a long-deceased door. Archer lowered his torch and entered.

The hewn passageway extended forward for several meters, sculpted into geometrical precision by long-forgotten masons. At the far end, as the torch light flowed outward to fill the airy chamber, they crossed into an extensive corridor that was several meters high and several meters wide; at the far end, almost beyond reach of the light, a dark nether region could be seen that indicated another passage.

Archer slowed to a halt. Lining both walls, for the entire distance of the chamber, were encased mummies leaning against the rock. Each was strapped to a brittle board and covered with webs; nonetheless, the features could still be seen, each mummy separate and distinct, revealing hundreds of visages of Vulcans of old.

The captain peered closely at one in particular. "T'klaas," he said finally, recognizing the face. "He was a student of Surak. One of the first Kolinahr masters."

T'Pol examined the mummy closely. "There's no inscription, nothing to indicate his bloodline," she noted. "How do you know his name?"

"I was called to name him," Archer answered mystically. "We're getting close."

…

"Our repairs are almost complete," Trip told Captain Hernandez, completing his report on the status of the _Enterprise_. "The final systems should be online in a few hours. Is there anything else?" he asked properly, keeping his posture at attention. Upon the arrival of the _Columbia_, Captain Hernandez had transported over to the _Enterprise _to take command and assess the situation; now she, Trip, and Malcolm were gathered in the captain's ready room.

Erika sighed softly. "Do you have any idea how much trouble you've stirred up, Commander?" she asked. "Admiral Gardner ordered you—repeatedly—to return to Earth, yet here you are openly supporting the Andorians. We had to pull the _Columbia _out of dry dock to come after you!"

"Well, we are returning to Earth," Trip hedged, and he smiled crookedly. "Those orders never specified a precise route."

Hernandez glared at the engineer, and his smile fell away. "You know it doesn't work like that, Commander," she rejoined tersely. "And Admiral Gardner is a little—prickly—about having his orders obeyed."

Malcolm leaned forward slightly. "Have you told Starfleet that we've warned the Andorians?" he asked.

Hernandez sighed again. "Not yet," she answered as she rubbed her temples. "I decided to talk with you first, before filing a report. And that's _only _as a favor to Jonathan," she added, skewering Trip with another glare. "Do you have any idea what the admiral will do when he finds out?"

"I'll be cashiered," Trip answered honestly. "But if I may speak frankly, Captain?"

"Of course," Hernandez said, granting permission. "I'd love to hear your reasoning on this."

"Isn't one career a reasonable cost to prevent a war?" Trip replied.

"And how do you know that it _will _prevent a war?" Hernandez retorted. "And who are you to rewrite a century of diplomacy? You've effectively betrayed our closest ally, Commander, and drawn us into a dispute that we have nothing to do with."

"With all due respect, sir," Trip replied, "We're already involved. And when V'Las had our embassy destroyed, he made it pretty clear where his own loyalties are."

Hernandez looked back and forth between the two officers. "And you're convinced that V'Las was behind the bombing? Not these—Syrranites?" she asked, working around the unfamiliar word.

Trip nodded. "We even have a signed and notarized confession from the man who _did _plant the bombs," he said, adding the captain a data padd. "In it, Stel accuses V'Las of framing the Syrranites as a way to garner support for striking Andoria."

Hernandez glanced at the padd and set it down; for now, she would take Trip's word as to the contents. "But _why_?" she pressed. "The Vulcans and Andorians are rather evenly matched. Why would a _logical _Vulcan propel his planet into such a war?"

Malcolm's prim tones were subdued. "We don't know, Captain," he admitted softly. "It doesn't make much sense to us, either, but the evidence is quite strong at this point. V'Las is either acting illogically, or he has some sort of hidden agenda."

"An agenda that could light the sector on fire," Erika acknowledged. She sighed again before speaking. "All right," she said, "I'd like to talk to Ambassador Soval before I decide anything."

"Of course," Trip offered willingly. The mere fact that he wasn't yet in the brig indicated that Captain Hernandez had her own doubts about Starfleet's orders.

"Lieutenant Reed to Ambassador Soval," Malcolm called out as he activated the comm panel. It buzzed softly and fell silent, causing him to frown. "Ambassador Soval, please respond," he repeated. It stayed silent.

The three officers jumped to their feet and ran to the bridge.

…

"Verena," Trip shouted the moment the doors opened in front of him. On the far side of the bridge, Ensign Jordan was staffing the science console. "Run internal sensors; scan the ship for Vulcan biosigns."

"Aye, sir," she called out alertly, and the report came in moments later. "He's not in his quarters or anywhere on G-deck…I'm only detecting one Vulcan biosign, sir, and it's in the brig."

"That's Stel," Trip noted angrily. As he spoke, Malcolm slid into the tactical post, and Captain Hernandez stepped up beside Trip.

"Ambassador Soval is not on board, sir," Verena confirmed from a second scan.

"Where—" the confusion dropped from Trip's face as he figured it out. "Scan the Andorian ships," he ordered irately.

"I have him, sir," Verena reported a moment later. "There's a Vulcan biosignature on the lead Andorian ship."

"Damnit," Trip muttered. "Go to general quarters, and open a channel!" Standing in the center of the bridge, he glanced over at Captain Hernandez; she was, after all, in formal command.

"You know Shran better than I do," she replied to the unspoken question.

Trip nodded and raised his voice. "Commander Shran. This is Commander Tucker. We know Ambassador Soval is aboard your ship; I want to speak with him now!"

…

Once again, under the influence of the induction waves, Soval found himself laughing. And it drove Shran mad, which only made it funnier.

"You find this amusing?" Shran shouted, spitting in Soval's face. His antennae bent forward, echoing the aggression that Shran was struggling to contain.

"Ordinarily, I wouldn't," Soval admitted. He understood what was happening; the machine was not amplifying particular emotions only—it was amplifying all of them, and at the moment, humor was at the forefront. "But because of this device—"

"There are three higher settings on that panel!" Shran snarled, pointing furiously at the control console. "If I use them—"

Soval's laughter cut off the bellicose Andorian. "You're afraid to injure me!" he exclaimed in glee. His body, once racked with pain, was now racked with hilarity. "If I were you, I'd leave that detail out of your reports!"

"Where is your _FLEET?_" Shran bellowed into Soval's face. His anger was palpable to everyone but the ecstatic Vulcan.

"I was a fool to think you'd listen!" Soval cried out. "Perhaps the High Command was right. We'll be better off when Andoria falls!"

…

The comm channel stayed silent, but the Andorians responded in another fashion.

"Sir," Travis reported alertly from the helm. "The Andorians are returning to the nebula!"

Hernandez's head whipped around to Malcolm. "Target the lead ship," she ordered. "Take out their engines."

"Aye, sir," Malcolm replied with a grim smile. A full salvo of torpedoes shot out from the _Enterprise, _drilling the _Kumari _with precision.

In the interrogation chamber, Shran felt the ship shake around him with the telltale rattle of weapons' impact. Several conduits exploded in the room, venting gas and smoke outward; and a distant rumble echoed through, announcing damage elsewhere in his ship.

"Shran to the bridge!" he shouted. "Report!"

"It's the Starfleet ship!" his aide answered over the comm. The _Kumari _shook again.

…

"Direct hit to their shield generator," Malcolm announced in satisfaction. "Their engines are flickering; I don't think they'll make it to the nebula."

"Well done," Hernandez acknowledged. "See if you can get a lock on Soval."

…

Before Shran could even steady himself, the bridge commander was back on the comm. "Should we return fire?"

Shran moved to give the order, but the corner of his eye was caught by the look on Soval's face. Far from placid, but far from angered, the Vulcan had a look of peaceful certainty about him, and it unnerved Shran; this was not how things were supposed to go.

Soval smiled faintly. "Are you going to make enemies of the humans as well?" he asked. The final words croaked as his breath ran out, and he paused to suck in another lung-full. "Or would you rather make them your friends?"

…

"The _Kumari _is coming about and powering down," Ensign Jordan reported as she watched the readings on her console. It showed the course changes and power readings of the Andorian warships. "The other two are following."

"Comman—Cap—sirs," Hoshi chimed in, settling on the simplest form. "We're receiving a hail from the _Kumari. _They say that they'll return the ambassador—as soon as he's untied."

"Well done, Commander," Captain Hernandez murmured.

…

Soval's unconscious form lay on the primary diagnostic bed in sickbay, faintly resembling a slab of inert clay; in his healing trance, the Vulcan's breathing was barely perceptible to the visible eye, and all but the most critical of muscular functions were silent. Deep inside, Dr. Phlox knew, the potent Vulcan mind was healing itself; repairing neural connections, rebalancing neurons, and piecing together the half-wrecked mind. But there was little Phlox could do to help.

Phlox, Tucker, and Hernandez had just finished discussing the ambassador's condition when the sickbay doors hissed open. Commander Shran entered, escorted by Lieutenant Reed and two armed guards. "How is he?" Shran asked gingerly, looking down at the immobile Vulcan.

"You've got a lot of nerve pretending you give a damn!" Trip retorted angrily.

Shran's face tightened. "I did what was necessary." The words were short and terse. "Soval understood."

Phlox sent the commander a cautioning glare. "He should be fine in another week or so," the doctor answered. "Although he likely won't return to full duty for a while longer."

"He risked his life coming here," Captain Hernandez noted. She stepped forward, casually blocking Trip with her own body; she was far smaller than the engineer, but her command aura held him back. "You have a funny way of repaying him."

"He's not the only one taking a risk," Shran observed, finally altering his gaze from the insensate Vulcan. "I just spoke with the Imperial Guard. They're redeploying our forces to Gatewood."

"So now you believe him?" Trip asked. His tone returned to equilibrium. "What changed your mind?"

"I _don't _believe him," Shran retorted. His antennae shot forward to punctuate the statement. "At least, not completely."

"Then why is the Imperial Guard redeploying?" Hernandez asked, curious now.

Shran shrugged nonchalantly. "Something Archer once said," he admitted after a moment. "The Andorians, you pinkskins, even the Vulcans—we're never going to progress until we end these petty squabbles. There's so much suspicion, so many lies…on both sides," he acknowledged. His eyes feel back to Soval. "We have to be willing to take a chance for peace."

The sentiment hung in the room for several seconds before Captain Hernandez spoke again. "What orders did they have for you?" she asked Shran; his three-ship task force was too far away to join the bulk of the Andorian fleet.

"The Imperial Guard has ordered me to proceed to Vulcan," Shran answered. "To provide a countervailing threat. I don't know _you,_ pinkskin," he said, giving Hernandez a suspicious glare. He hesitated before pressing on. "But I do know _you_," he said to Trip. "My superiors believe it may be helpful if Starfleet were to join us."

…

The mummies stood unyielding guard as the three passed down the length of the chamber, frozen faces embalmed in stoic expressions that allowed the threesome to travel unimpeded. T'Pol alone found herself glancing over her shoulder at the unmoving faces, convinced that she saw movement from behind; Archer and T'Pau, however, pressed forward without hesitation toward the dark recess at the far end.

As they approached, the recess gradually took visible form, revealing another tunnel; this one far smaller, far tighter than those before. Not even two meters tall and a meter wide, the captain had to hunch over to fit inside; the shorter Vulcan women scrapped the top and periodically ducked, prescient enough to avoid the hanging webs.

The tunnel quickly cornered and slanted downward through an array of twists and turns, dropping several meters over a brief length of corners and switchbacks. The torch light was scarcely useful; they could see no farther than the next bend, and nearly stumbled more than once as the floor rose and fell and sloped away. With Archer leading the way, T'Pol found herself bringing up the rear; she could not even see the captain ahead of her, as he passed around the next corner before she could arrive.

Another half hour—or so—passed in this claustrophobic passageway before the torch light finally revealed a small, spacious cavern, several meters broad in every direction. The threesome entered slowly, pausing to check on each other; but they had passed through the darkness without incident, and were ready to proceed.

T'Pol lifted her torch, and looked about with amazement. The room was perfectly clean; every space on the walls and ceiling were covered in etchings; pictures and diagrams, scribbled writings and carved equations, it was baffling and incomprehensible. Little resembled anything she had ever seen; entire languages seemed to be scripted out in forms that were lost in the depths of time. She stepped towards the wall and, unbidden, let her fingers follow the impenetrable writing.

_For I am the first and the last_, it read. T'Pol's lips moved softly as she tried to give voice to the words. _I am the honored one and the scorned one_. Above, beneath what appeared to be a star, she located an entire passage. _I am the silence that is incomprehensible_, it said. And the idea whose remembrance is frequent.

T'Pau, too, looked around with unconcealed awe at the inscriptions that covered the anteroom. One in particular caught her attention; and she gazed at it firmly, trying to understand the meaning within. _I am the voice whose sound is manifold_, it read. Her mouth formed the words, but no sounds could be made. _And the word whose appearance is multiple. I am the utterance of my name_.

Jonathan Archer alone was not spellbound. His attention, rather, was turned to the far side of the chamber, where his torch illuminated a doorway carved from age-old sheets of rock. Carved in relief with unscarred precision was a set of geometric designs; an outer circle, consisting of several rings, contained four inner quadrants, which themselves were bisected by broad lines. Each quadrant was further separated by an interior arc; the inside portions, raised in higher relief, each contained more of the ancient script.

_I am the knowledge of my inquiry,_

_and the finding of those who seek after me._

Archer reached out and pressed lightly on the stone; it rolled away with surprising ease, and the threesome entered the final room. It was far smaller, simple in decoration; against the wall was a stone altar. On it was a triangular, pyramidal container, tall and slender. Above it was the only inscription in the room. _I am within_.

T'Pau let out a faint gasp. "Forgive me," she whispered, "for harboring my doubts."

Archer stepped forward and picked up the hidden _Kir'Shara._

…

"We can't do it, Commander!" Erika's voice ricocheted harshly off the bulkheads of the _Enterprise _ready room. "We are _both _under firm orders to return to Earth! Admiral Gardner does not tolerate insubordination!"

Trip linked his fingers and placed his hands on top his head. "And we _will _return to Earth! But Vulcan _does _happen to be on the way—and I've seen no orders forbidding us from getting involved!"

"You're playing semantics, Commander!" Hernandez replied severely.

"Well, when that's the only card you have to play…" Trip released a small smile.

"Damnit, Trip!" Erika sat down in exasperation. She made sure to claim the captain's desk chair as her own. "Even if I assume—_in arguendo_—that our orders can be twisted that severely…you know that it's not our place to get involved here, and much less to side with the Andorians! The Vulcans are our allies!"

"And since when have they acted like it?" Trip retorted argumentatively. "The Andorians have been better friends than the Vulcans have! Cap'n Archer has been saying that Earth needs some friends out here, and friends stand by each other!"

Erika sighed loudly. "You have another point, don't you?" she asked in resignation.

Slightly abashed, Trip sat down as well. "Just this," he said, leaning forward. "Neither of us knows how this will all end, so all we can do is to do the right thing."

The _Columbia_'s captain studied Trip for a second before answering. "I'm going to leave you in temporary command of the _Enterprise, _Commander, but remember that you answer to _my _orders. Meanwhile—" her eyes began to twinkle. "Set a course for Vulcan."

…

At the outer rim of Vulcan's Forge, the trio climbed to the top of a mountainous ridge, scrambling for footing amid the shifting rocks and pebbles that periodically cascaded downward beneath their boots. The rock beneath was solid, but the surface was worn gravel and grit that bore the consistency of rough sandpaper; and it fell away under the weight of humanoid bodies, making the ascent a trying journey of scaling with hands and feet.

At last, however, they reached the top, and the human captain sank to the ground, eager to catch his fading breath. The Vulcan air was thin, and his lungs labored mightily to supply him with sufficient oxygen; the boosters that Phlox provided had worn off earlier, while they were navigating the warrens of tunnels and passageways back to the surface. From then on, travel was slow, as the two Vulcan women forced the captain to pace himself.

Sitting in the sandy grit, his entire body coated with tiny pebbles glued on by dried sweat, Archer barely noticed the hardships. Instead, he focused forward, his eyes traveling out across the horizon in the direction of Shi'Kahr. The great capital of Vulcan was days distant, far across endless kilometers of flattened desert and sloping dunes, but its peaks were visible in the dry, clear air.

Far off to one side, the light of Nevasa was hovering half-above and half-below the plane of the planet. The starry furnace cast off a halo of bright light, arching above it for several degrees before beginning its transition to the twilight. The great dome of the sky was a luscious array of shifting colors; near the star, it glowed goldenrod and jessamy, before transitioning away in a thousand hues of citreous, claret, jacinthe and saffron before deepening into rich tones of magenta and crimson.

T'Pol carefully lay her pack on the ground before sitting next to Archer. Unlike his sprawled pose, she crossed her legs primly and held her back straight; the rarified air encouraged her to assume a position of meditation. "I'm still not clear on how the _Kir'Shara _will stop a war," she remarked, uttering the word with its whispered ember for the first time.

Before her, the vastness of the desert plain stretched out, almost without end; far off in the distance, the sky and sand merged together, creating a vast sea of color that extended unbroken, looping about itself to create and endless reality. Within the pomegranate creation hung two pale orbs, tracing their way across the deepening sky; Vulcan's twin moons, small and weak, yet visible within the aeons.

T'Pau, too, took a seat on the gritty rock. "You have spent too much time on Earth," she remarked without reprobation. She pulled her cloak a little tighter; for the thin woman, accustomed to the furnace, the twilight air was growing chilly. "Under V'Las, the High Command has been steadily deepening its grip on Vulcan. They tell us that it's necessary, that it's for our own good; that without the benevolent wisdom of the High Command, our violent impulses will resurface and we will destroy ourselves."

"The High Command regulates every facet of every life since shortly after the time of Surak," Archer added, drawing from the knowledge within. "The words you hear, the songs you sing, books, music, work and play…the High Command dictates all of it. They claim that it's logical to do so."

"They claim that they alone hold the knowledge," T'Pau explained, seeking to answer the confused expression of T'Pol. "They are the Priests of the Temple; they alone possess the knowledge of life."

"And anyone who claims otherwise—"

"Is a threat to their power," Archer finished. "And therefore must be a heretic."

"Claims of alternate understandings have surfaced over the centuries," T'Pau went on. "We're told that the words of meaning are really diabolical poisons designed to draw us from the one true faith. And if anyone challenges that declaration—they're branded a heretic and executed. The Priests will seek to destroy you like splinters beneath their feet."

"But they've been unable to extinguish the flame," T'Pol answered, grappling to understand.

"Exactly," Archer replied, nodding. "The spark has remained lit for all these years, echoing in a thousand corners of every Vulcan soul. At first, those who find it only know its beauty; but it creates its own music, far more harmonious than the pale shadows offered by the Priests."

T'Pau breathed in deeply. "Many describe it as a dream, but it is far more vivid than that. To experience _a'Tha_…" Her eyes closed as if in remembrance; her soft singing floated through the air unbidden.

_{Vulcan text}_

The captain, too, had closed his eyes, and as T'Pau's singing drifted away, he opened them with a deep breath. "Unlike before, the time is now ripe to reveal the hidden _Kir'Shara_," he explained. "No longer will it have to be hidden in caves, and sheltered by despair."

"And when the _Kir'Shara _is shown to be real…" T'Pol's words were airy and soft.

T'Pau nodded. "The Priests will fall."

...

_Quote from Hermes the Thrice-Great Lord_


	12. Chapter 11

—**LEH-WUN****—**

"There is no death of anyone, but only in appearance, even as there is no birth of any, save only in seeming. In reality, no one is ever born, nor does one ever die. It is simply a matter of being visible and invisible."

-The Hidden _Kir'Shara _of Surak

"Welcome back, Administrator," V'Las offered mockingly as Soketh returned to the command bunker, escorted by two Security Directorate personnel. The Chief Administrator's face showed a peculiar twist of delight at the scene; his most potent rival being dragged back under armed guard. As far as V'Las was concerned, it was an excellent sign.

"I no longer desire that rank," Soketh retorted strongly. He did not struggle against the guards, but neither was he complacent; as with any Vulcan, his body was firm and strong, and his autonomic control allowed him to maintain a state of fight-readiness. "I chose to resign from that body."

V'Las' face twisted again. "Well," he observed disdainfully, "you're still a Vulcan, and still subject to our laws. There are few crimes still punishable by execution, but treason is one of them." His eyes laughed scornfully as he stepped towards Soketh. "Did you really think that you could hide your treasonous beliefs from me?" V'Las scoffed.

Soketh straightened his head. Minutes earlier, he had been caught while trying to send a surreptitious communication from the capital building; his logic convinced him that it was the right—and the necessary—thing to do. "Betraying you and betraying Vulcan are not the same," he answered. And to his hidden chagrin, he did not believe that the message had gone out; V'Las' spies had been watching and stopped the communiqué.

"I _am _Vulcan!" V'Las' face contorted in momentary anger. "_I _am the chosen leader of our people! _I_—" His words were drowned in a sea of alarms.

"Administrator!" The bunker commandant, a lean Vulcan named V'Tor, spoke up as a dozen officers scrambled to shut off the alarms. "The Andorian fleet is on the move!"

…

Contrails of heat rose high from the desert plain under the heat of the midday sun, snaking upwards as barely-visible currents that held the lone _shavokh _aloft hundreds of meters above. The heat was too intensive for travel; at least, for the sole human among the trio, and T'Pau had decreed that they pause at a sharply-cut ravine. Deep down at the bottom, they were sheltered from the sun, and could rest amid the cooler temperatures below the surface.

The two Vulcans heard the sound first; it was faint in the thin desert air, but as it grew steadily, it was unmistakable. At a terse command from T'Pau, the trio quickly scaled the wall of the ravine, hoping to beat the newcomers.

They made it only a short distance before coming to a halt. Two aerial transports had set down before them; overhead, a pair of atmospheric fighters flew in lazy circles. All of the vehicles bore the emblem of the Security Directorate.

T'Pau drew a sharp breath, her body on high alert; they had little chance of fighting, but no chance of fleeing. Rocking on her feet, she readied herself for combat, until T'Pol laid a hand on the Syrranite's arm.

"It's okay," T'Pol said reassuringly. Her brow scrunched up. "I'm not sure why, but I know it is."

A couple moments later, the side of one transport opened. Out stepped Koss.

…

Travis Mayweather ran the sensor readings twice—it took maybe a second and a half—before making his report. "Commander!" he called out, drawing the attention of the entire bridge. "I'm reading a massive subspace distortion!"

_That's just great_, Trip told himself. Their little task force—separated from the main bulk of the Andorian fleet—was trying to sneak up on Vulcan from the other side, but their maneuver depended heavily on surprise. With only five ships, they lacked the firepower for a serious fight.

"Verena?" Trip asked, turning to check with the science officer. She was relatively new to the _Enterprise_—she had joined after their return from the Delphic Expanse—but had demonstrated a high level of competency.

"One moment, sir," Ensign Jordan answered as her fingers danced over the controls. "It's a Vulcan fleet. They're dropping out of warp."

"Commander!" Hoshi jumped in as well. "Shran is hailing us!"

Trip took a second to roll his head on his neck before responding; he needed to catch his breath before things really hit the fan. "All right, Hoshi," he said moments later. "On screen."

On the primary viewscreen, Commander Shran resembled a ball of blue energy. "Our sensors show eight Vulcan cruisers approaching," the Andorian stated immediately, forgoing any greeting.

"Will we get any support from the rest of your fleet?" Trip asked with faint hope.

"No." The answer was simple. "We're on our own, pinkskin. Starfleet and Andoria, fighting side-by-side at last…" Shran's eyes gleamed. "Something about this feels right." The Andorian commander cut the channel.

"Commander, are you sure this is wise?" Malcolm asked nervously from his posting at tactical. "If the Vulcans find us here, they may think we're siding with the Andorians. It could cause a _war_ between us and the Vulcans."

"Malcolm," Trip replied musingly, "I think we _are _siding with the Andorians."

…

"Greetings," Koss said, raising his hand and splitting his fingers in formal salute. "The one who is my wife." He bent slowly at the waist as he acknowledged her. "The human captain," he added, bending again. He took a slower look at the third member of the trio before speaking again. "The Lady T'Pau. Our mutual friend, Soketh, sent me to provide protection and escort back to the capital."

…

V'Las stared at the battle maps as if he could move the pieces by sheer will. He had spent months setting this stage; moving elements around the board, setting events in motion, massaging and manipulating a dozen outcomes to a hundred elements. His orchestration had been superb. The main Andorian fleet had been relegated to the sidelines, unaware and out-of-place; the Earth Embassy bombing had bought off the meddlesome officers in Starfleet, and the indictment of the Syrranites enabled him to wipe out that fifth column of Vulcan's enemies. A thousand pieces of evidence had been gathered, assembled, and re-assembled to justify an immediate pre-emptive strike against Andoria; and once the battle was waged, the final measures of his scheme would come into play, arising as if by nature.

_But now_, he brooded as he watched helplessly, his plans were coming apart. For the sake of one element—_one element, _he raged—he had to retool on the fly, and jam down opposition that once had been under his exquisite control. It was _Starfleet _that was throwing off the operations, refusing to play the role he had assigned for them. _And for what?_ he wondered. He didn't understand their motives. At the worst, they should have remained on the sidelines.

"The bulk of the Andorian fleet has left Poon Motar," Siven noted calmly. The elder administrator stood side-by-side with V'Las, watching as the blinking indicators of the three-dimensional display showed the movements of each Andorian warship. "They have also dispatched more ships from Andoria." The indicators showed a handful of ships moving in the direction of Gatewood.

"They won't matter," V'Las snarled dismissively. The Vulcan fleet still outnumbered the available defenders by over three-to-one. Far more troubling was the Andorian task force—and two Starfleet vessels—charging towards Vulcan itself.

"You told us this strike would be a surprise," Siven said quietly. "That the conquest would occur quickly, with minimal casualties on both sides."

The only female member of the High Command, a woman named T'Alei, stood with them as well, discreetly listening to the conversation; Soketh sat under armed guard across the room, and Narvel was in discussions with V'Tor.

"The loss of surprise is a tragedy," V'Las retorted, directing his answer at both Siven and T'Alei. "But it cannot sway us from our mission. The security of Vulcan depends on our willingness to stand strong, Siven."

"Administrator, without the element of surprise, our military success is in question," Siven countered as he observed the moving lights. "Andoria and Vulcan are evenly matched. We may have to call off this attack."

V'Las looked up at the older man, his black eyes burning angrily. "Our forces are committed," he barked. "I will not ask them to turn and expose themselves to the Andorians!"

"Administrator!" The sharp interjection came from one of several lower-level officers manning the various stations in the command bunker. "We're being hailed by one of the Starfleet ships!"

_And there's that little problem_, V'Las thought, watching the indicators streaking towards Vulcan.

…

From the corner of _Columbia_'s bridge, Ensign Sidra Valerian spoke up. "I have the Vulcan High Command on subspace, sir," she reported. At the captain's gesture, Sidra opened the channel into an inset corner on the main viewscreen.

"Chief Administrator V'Las," Captain Hernandez stated firmly as she stood from her command chair. Standing in the center of her command, with the regular lighting dimmed in battle-readiness and the flashing strobes of emergency sirens thrumming, she knew that she cut an impressive figure. "This is Captain Erika Hernandez of Earth. Call off your attack _immediately_."

"Count confirmed," Malcolm noted tersely from the rear of the _Enterprise_ bridge. "The Vulcans are powering weapons."

"The Andorians are doing the same," Verena Jordan added from science.

"Travis." Trip elongated the two syllables as he adjusted battle plans in his head. "Take us out of formation, and place us between both fleets. Hoshi—"

"On it, sir," she replied immediately. Under her fingertips, her console transmitted a message to the _Columbia_ helm to follow suit. "We're being hailed, sir," she added wryly. "It's Shran."

Trip broke into a smile; the Andorian's rapid response was no surprise. "Commander Shran," he called out lightly. "What can I do for you?"

Shran's scowling blue face filled the viewscreen. "Commander, what do you think you're doing?" Shran shouted furiously. The Andorian was on the edge of his command chair. "Get back in formation!"

"Sorry, Shran, but I don't take orders from you," Trip answered, not dropping the smile. "But in case you hadn't noticed, they outnumber us two to one."

Shran's face twisted about. "Get _back _in formation, _Enterprise_!"

"I'm trying to buy us some time, Commander," Trip answered, and his smile fell away at last. "Perhaps you should follow our lead this time."

…

V'Las was not immediately familiar with this female captain; in the depths of his eidetic memory, of course, her name and face were easily recognizable, but he had never dealt with her first-hand.

"Leave the area immediately," he ordered imperiously. Humans—most humans—tended to back down in the face of a Vulcan order, although Starfleet captains had an annoying habit of doing otherwise.

Erika Hernandez didn't waver; she stood ramrod strong on the viewer, flanked by two banks of pulsating lights. "I suggest you turn your ships around _now_," she replied. Her body language radiated an intensity of steely emotion.

"This doesn't concern Starfleet!" V'Las barked back. "This is between Vulcan and Andoria. Now leave the area immediately!"

"I'm not going to do that, Administrator," Hernandez answered firmly. "The Andorians helped us when Earth was under attack—and the Vulcans didn't. Unlike _you, _we humans stand by our friends."

V'Las clenched his eyes shut for a moment, trying to calm the throbbing pain between his eyes. It was moments like these that he was most envious of his Vulcan colleagues—throughout his life, he had always struggled with the emotional discipline that seemed to come so easily for them. And as the intensity of the moment grew, so too did the pain.

"I've already spoken with Admiral Gardner," V'Las said at last. "I know that you're not authorized to start a war with us."

The corners of Erika's mouth crept upward. "I assure you, Administrator, that Starfleet vessels will not fire first," she replied. "If you fire on us—or our allies—Starfleet will know who is responsible. You _will _be fighting a war on two fronts."

"_Ponfo mirann_," V'Las snarled as he drew a finger across a control panel. The viewer flickered, and the image of the human captain disappeared. "Commandant V'Tor!" V'Las' head spun around as he located the military commander. "Order our ships to engage the enemy fleet!"

"Administrator," Siven said firmly as he slid his body between the two other Vulcans. "I can't allow this."

V'Las pointed a condemning finger at Siven and barked at a sublieutenant. As commanded, the Vulcan officer drew his weapon on Siven. "If you attempt to interfere again," V'Las threatened, "I'll have you arrested as well!"

…

"Commander!" Malcolm's shout carried across the bridge, even over the blaring alarm sirens. "The Vulcans are locking weapons!"

"Who on?" Trip's head darted backwards as he waited for the answer.

"Just the Andorians," Malcolm answered a heartbeat later. "Hoshi?"

"Message coming in from the _Columbia_," Hoshi acknowledged; Trip had predicted it well. "Captain Hernandez says to hold our fire until we're hit, but then open up."

Trip smiled grimly. "Stand by phase-cannons, Malcolm, but don't fire until I give the order."

The Vulcan cruisers burst forward with a concentrated opening salvo.

Outside, the green energy pulses of Vulcan weaponry shot across the rarefied dust of interstellar space, and the cruisers dove into preplanned evasive maneuvers that sent them dancing about in the sky. Eight sets of beams jumped through space; five connected with Andorian warships, and one missed completely.

With the two Starfleet ships sitting the middle, it was inevitable; the last two sets of beams each struck one of the starships.

The _Enterprise _shook slightly under the opening salvo. Lights flashed across the bridge, announcing the weapons fire. "We're in the crossfire!" Malcolm announced, confirming the expected.

"Hard about, Travis!" Trip ordered immediately. "Bring us about for weapons!" He left the navigational orders at that; Lieutenant Mayweather was the most accomplished navigator on board—it was best to let Travis set his own course. Countless battle drills had synchronized the pilot and the gunner. "Fire at will, Malcolm!"

"Aye, sir!" Malcolm shouted out. The roar of battle din was already bellowing across the bridge, and as Trip clung to the arms of the command chair, the ship shook again, drilled by another well-aimed set of energy beams. Trip kept his post even as a deck plate erupted to his side, shot upward by an explosive ball of superheated gas. The burning stench of rancid snake billowed outward, and tiny puffs of temporary fire exploded as the gas expanded outward.

"One of the Andorian ships is in trouble!" Verena called out as she monitored the battle from her own station. "Their reactor's been hit!"

"Bring us in, Travis!" Trip ordered sharply, and the _Enterprise _responded immediately, curving about in a gut –wrenching turn. "Status, Verena?"

"A Vulcan cruiser's heading towards them!" she reported with swiftly.

"I got it, Commander!" Travis' voice joined the rapid fire of reports and orders as his fingers danced, bringing the starship between the stricken warship and the Vulcan cruiser.

"Fire, Malcolm!" Trip ordered, and the phase cannons spat out death.

In the High Command's bunkers, the reports and orders were flying equally fast. "The Earth vessel's opened fire on one of our ships!" an officer announced, drawing V'Las' attention and ire.

"Destroy them!" the Chief Administrator bellowed.

…

_Columbia _shuddered again under the impact of weapons' fire. Clouds of colored smoke floated across the bridge, venting outward from ruptured conduits behind shattered bulkheads; more than one monitor lay in shards. On one side, the communications console was on fire, the flames dancing in an unholy mixture of blue and green, and the rich aroma of melting plasticine threatened to turn every stomach on the bridge.

"Report!" Hernandez ordered as she gripped the arms of her command chair. The gyrostabilizers were unable to keep up with the enemy fire, and the _Columbia _rocked with every hit; any crewmember unfortunate enough to be standing rapidly found themselves flung aside like rag dolls, slamming into walls or draping over control consoles.

"We're being targeted!" Lt. Commander Kalil el-Rashid, her second officer, reported from science.

Before Hernandez could shoot a pointed glare at him, the _Columbia _rocked again as it was knocked completely from its bearings. "Evasive to starboard!" Hernandez ordered sharply, tracking the starship's movements by the resonance in her bones. "Go to full impulse. I need weapons!"

"We're not making a dent!" Lt. Kiona Thayer reported from tactical. She was ducked low, nearly level with her console, trying to avoid flames that were shooting out above and behind her head. Under the intense heat, sweat was pouring down the officer's face, and strands of hair were plastered across her vision; Kiona spared one second to clear her face.

"Captain!" el-Rashid shouted out. "Two Andorians incoming! They're driving off the Vulcans!"

"Remind me to thank them when we have communications back up!" Erika answered happily.

…

"Hull plating's gone!" Malcolm reported, doing his best to project his voice over the cacophony. The alarm sirens had been silenced, but a hundred systems still wailed, and the starship creaked and groaned under the force of every energy blast.

"Travis, try to shake that tail!" Trip shouted. In front of him, the navigator's body appeared as three as the ship shook; the commander couldn't even turn his head to address tactical. "Aft torpedoes!" he shouted instead, hoping his voice would carry.

"The launchers aren't responding!" Malcolm answered frantically as he punched unresponsive controls.

"Use whatever you got!" Trip ordered. "Where the hell's any backup?"

"The Vulcans are keeping everyone busy!" Hoshi replied. Her own frenetic energy poured into the secondary controls of the comm station. "It looks like we're on our own!"

"Incoming!" Malcolm shouted a scant second before the _Enterprise_ was sent slaloming across space. The sirens wailed again, nearly screaming in pain as the ship's multitude systems exploded. Power surges raced the length, overloading conduits and frying conductors; bulkheads were blown from walls under the pressurized force, entire compartments rapidly flooding with ionized smoke and flame.

…

"Destroy them!" the Chief Administrator bellowed as he stared daggers at the two Starfleet ships. They were getting in the way, preventing his carefully-designed machinations from reaching their natural conclusion; of all the elements on the board, those humans were the only ones which refused to play their part!

"Destroy them?" V'Las wheeled around to find the source of the uncertain question. To his surprise, he found Commandant V'Tor looking at him in doubt.

"I gave you an order, Commandant!" V'Las barked angrily. "Either carry it out, or step aside!"

As the two Vulcans stared at each other—one madly, the other questioningly—a softer voice intruded. "What is your logical purpose for destroying the Earth ships?" T'Alei asked. In contrast to the anger that radiated from V'Las, her own deportment was stable and serene. "Is it not enough to stop their advance? Where is the logic in taking more lives than is necessary?"

"These are military command decisions, and my orders to give!" V'Las hissed at her, stepping into her personal space with a fury. "I will not have you interfering!" In the corner of his view, he knew that V'Tor still waited, having not yet issued the command.

"It is always our duty to ascertain the strength of one another's logic," Sivem observed. "I do not question your authority; I _do _question your logic."

"We must kill them, before they kill us!" V'Las retorted, turning to face this new threat. "Can't you see the danger that they represent?"

"You said the same thing about the Syrranites," Sivem countered. "And yet everything you have claimed about them seems to be a lie. I must ask you to show your proof before I can allow this attack to proceed."

"A life is too precious a gift to take, based merely on suspicion and accusation," T'Alei added. "_Kup-fun-tor ha'kiv na'ish du stau_? Can you return life to what you kill?"

"I will have you all held for treason!" V'Las shot back angrily, and with a furious movement, he strode over to V'Tor's console, intent on sending the order himself.

…

"I've lost helm control!" Travis shouted as the _Enterprise _dipped to starboard. His fingers clung to the edges of his console in desperation as the ship tilted. Behind Travis, Commander Tucker was flung from his seat and into the base of the seldom-used engineering console, where he unfurled himself painfully.

A blaring alarm resounded across the bridge. "Hull breach on G-deck!" Hoshi reported, shouting over the noise as her hand slammed down to shut off the alarm. "We're venting atmosphere!"

"Hang on!" Verena Jordan added as new sensor readings scrolled across her screen. "The Vulcan ships have ceased fire—they're withdrawing out of weapons range!"

"Hoshi, try to raise them on the comm!" Malcolm shouted, sliding into command as Trip lay on the deck. "What are they doing?"

…

V'Las's stunned body lay on the floor of the command bunker, the victim of V'Tor's energy pistol.

...

_Quote from Apollonius of Tyana_


	13. Chapter 12

—**LEH-DAH****—**

"It is a journey to meet the self and at the same time to meet the Divine."

-The Hidden _Kir'Shara _of Surak

...

_Starship Columbia. Captain's Log, supplemental. Under flag of truce, the Vulcan cruisers are escorting the Columbia and Enterprise to Vulcan. The Andorian task force is holding position just outside Vulcan space. Administrator V'Las has been relieved of his position, and his successors have made a preliminary offer of peace terms. For the moment, the conflict between Vulcan and Andoria appears to have been averted._

…

Hours later, Koss' transports set down in the city center, in the center of the plaza before the High Command center. Already, despite scant notice, hundreds of Vulcan were gathered around in what was an emphatic showing for their people; the crowds were mostly silent. Few words could be heard, few expressions could be seen in the sea of passive faces; but their very presence spoke volumes to those who could understand.

Archer, T'Pol, and T'Pau—still wearing their dirty, stained clothing from the desert, unwashed and unkept—walked down the path between the attendees and up one set of stairs. Before them, the Security Directorate guards opened the heavy doors to the building and stepped aside, granting entrance to the filthy trio.

In the center of the lobby, waiting patiently, were the three remaining members of the High Command: T'Alei, Siven, and Soketh

"Administrators," T'Pau spoke first as she bowed slightly at the hip. "It is agreeable to see you."

Soketh took the lead. "It is agreeable to meet you, T'Pau," he replied. His eyes twinkled slightly. "You have set mother Vulcan on fire." He turned to the captain. "Vulcan owes you a great debt."

Archer, recognizing his cue, stepped forward and held the elegant pyramid up towards Soketh. "I bring you the hidden _Kir'Shara _of Surak," he said formally. His voice was easily heard by the sensitive ears of the Vulcan crowd outside, and a soft gasp rippled about.

"Perhaps it is better if we let the Lady T'Pau keep possession for the moment," T'Alei suggested. Archer smiled slightly, understanding the wisdom, and he handed the artifact over to the younger woman.

"Quantum dating will confirm its age," T'Pol added.

Soketh regarded her with gentle eyes. "Its exoteric provenance is of no relevance," he answered. "Does the spark within depend on the validity of its transient shell?"

…

High atop Mount Selaya, several Vulcans gathered in the manner done since time immemorial. Above them, the orange skies of mother Vulcan stretched from horizon to horizon; the brilliance of Nevasa shone brightly, nearly torching the life below with its heat. The air was still; only scarce breezes emerged to lift the _shavokh _aloft, to spread their wings high above the desert's floor.

The last echoes of the sage's song slowly died away, restoring the gathering to solitude.

Soren waited until the stillness was complete before moving again. With ginger motion, he reached out to Archer; Soren spread his hands, commanding the captain to kneel.

"Passed down through the Ages," he said softly, his words conscious to all who could hear, "we bring the knowledge of our ancestors, the _ho-rah _of _vre-katra_. Before us resides the true _katra _of Surak, trapped for this time in the realm of _e'shua_. Let it now live on in me."

The softly-spoken words disappeared again in the stillness before Soren moved, bringing his hands forward and allowing his fingers to fall upon Archer's face. Each fingertip instinctively sought contact with the surface nerves, and a force of energy began to flow between the two men. "_Vokau_," Soren said, emanating from within.

"_Vokau_," Archer repeated, his lips moving of their own accord. His eyes were closed, but the darkness was weak; it flashed white and cleared into brightness, a light that came from nowhere. Time passed as their minds meshed, intertwined and merging as one, separate yet whole, one yet distinct.

Soren's fingers fell away gently. "The _katra _resides within me," he said softly.

…

By doctor's orders, T'Pol lay flat on her bed, contemplating the plasticine ceiling tiles. Her body and mind, having endured much during her journey beneath the Forge, were mending and recuperating; already, she could consciously ignore the multitude of aches and bruises in her body, rendering the pain insignificant.

Her mind, although, would take longer. She had yet to grieve properly for the loss of her mother; she had yet to determine how she—_felt_—about T'Les' passing. The two women were not particularly close, and had sparred frequently just before T'Les died. But T'Pol no longer felt the urge to quack and quiver in her veins; the mental imbalances which had plagued her seemed to be disappearing. With time, she hoped, she would once again be a true daughter of Vulcan.

She did shiver once, as she caught herself thinking those words, but the door chimed before she dwell on the significance.

"Enter," T'Pol called out as she stood up from her bunk. Her hands ran down the front of her jumpsuit, calmly smoothing the wrinkles that had gathered, and one hand ran through her hair just as the door hissed open to reveal Koss.

"Greetings, my husband," T'Pol acknowledged properly as Koss came in. "Captain Archer asked me to express his gratitude."

"Administrator Soketh told me you were in danger," Koss answered. Soketh's last-effort communiqué _had _gotten through, after all. "I wouldn't have been a very good husband if I didn't help," he added lightly.

T'Pol, struggling with an appropriate response, fell back. "I'm not certain when I'll be able to return," she answered uncertainly. "I'm aware that I promised your family that we would eventually live together."

"That's not why I've come," Koss replied gently. "Our marriage was—shall we say—a matter of security, not an expression of _ashaya_. The danger has passed; logically, it is time to terminate our arrangement."

"The goal of our bond was to protect my mother," T'Pol acknowledged. She fumbled somewhat; she had expected this discussion to go far differently.

"There was…more to the situation than that." Koss answered calmly, but his eyes telegraphed his concern. "You were in danger as well. There were many within the High Command that wanted to charge you with treason for enlisting in Starfleet; the only way to protect you—and keep you on board the _Enterprise_—was by marrying you into the Security Directorate."

"Treason?" T'Pol answered in disbelief as she sorted through the words; much of it came as a surprise, even as she recognized the signs that had been present. The first question that rose to her mind, however, was far from the most obvious. "Why did you want to keep me on board the _Enterprise_?"

Koss' expression turned almost sheepish. "I cannot answer that, T'Pol. But I am releasing you from our marriage."

"You don't have to do this," T'Pol replied unwillingly. Her mind still swam as she struggled to assemble the pieces, but it was clear that Koss was a far more honorable man than she had judged him for.

"I know," Koss answered calmly. He turned to leave, but paused in the doorway. "Goodbye, T'Pol."

…

Jonathan Archer once again felt the heat of Vulcan as he strolled along one of the many passageways of Mount Selaya. This particular one cut around the edge of the mountain; it was little more than a leveled cliff that ringed the circumference, not even two meters wide. On one side, the rock rose sharply overhead; on the other, it fell away for hundreds of meters, deep into the hazy canyon floor far below.

"How do you feel, Captain?" T'Pau asked as she strolled alongside him. In deference to the human's battered body, she set an ambling pace, as if in no hurry to return; it would take them some time to complete their walk, and the conversation came unhurried.

Archer paused to roll his head on his neck; he could hear the vertebrae joints popping, and he held his head back for a moment to relish in the waves of sunlight that caressed him. "Like a giant weight's been lifted," he answered slightly later, as he resumed his leisurely stride. "How about you?"

T'Pau tilted her head. "It is…an illogical question," she answered. "I anticipate new challenges; that is all."

Archer snorted lightly. "You sound like a Vulcan," he rejoined. "Has your appointment been formalized?"

"This morning," T'Pau replied. The High Command was officially disbanding; its authority was in tatters following the exposure of V'Las' machinations and the discovery of the _kir'Shara_. V'Las himself was on house arrest, at his compound in the deep desert; Narvel had resigned, anticipating severe scrutiny for his role in supporting V'Las. The remaining three administrators, Soketh, Siven, and T'Alei, were set to disband the High Command within the year, pending a public referendum.

And T'Pau, scarcely into her maturity, had been appointed the Prime Minister of all Vulcan.

Archer walked on, his eyes drawn momentarily to a _shavokh_ flying on a level plane. Its great wings were spread wide to catch the thin breeze, and the creature turned and dipped slightly as it let out a screeching call.

"Are the arrangements finalized for Stel?" Archer asked after a long pause. The hot sun was making him sleepy; he could close his eyes and almost drift into slumber.

"All that remains is signing the accord," T'Pau answered. Earth's foreign and justice ministers had made the trip to 40 Eridani to assist in settling the astropolitical consequences of V'Las' aborted war; in the accord that followed, Vulcan was granted first jurisdiction to try Stel for his actions. It was widely expected that the justice minister would accept the results, and decline any further prosecution. "Vulcan prefers to handle its internal affairs in private," T'Pau had said at the time.

"You have a long road ahead," Archer remarked as his gaze drifted across the Forge. From this vantage point, huge swathes of the desert could be seen before them. "The Vulcan people have been split into many sects; it'll be your task to bring unity from the chaos."

T'Pau nodded in agreement. "It is a new era for the children of Vulcan," she answered. "But it is a new era for Earth as well. Vulcan will be preoccupied with our own affairs; it is time for Earth to stand on its own."

Archer smiled slightly. "We're ready."

...

_Quote from Carl Gustav Jung_


	14. Epilogue

—**EPILOGUE****—**

Phlox was nearly ecstatic as he handed a data padd to T'Pol, who was sitting, perched, on the side of his primary diagnostic bed. "Your neurolytic enzymes are at the same level they were a week ago," he said, not giving the Vulcan a chance to read the report first. "There is no sign remaining of your Pa'Nar syndrome."

T'Pol's expression was not one of glee, nor even one of stoicism; her face bent, ever so slightly, with an air of confusion. "It's still difficult to accept," she explained haltingly. "I had finally reconciled myself to the reality of my disease."

Phlox nodded with compassionate understanding. "You were diagnosed with an incurable disease," he offered. "Now it's gone. That's a big adjustment to make. But you're not alone." From across Vulcan, scores were coming forward for similar diagnosis and treatment; the stigma attached toPa'Nar syndrome was rapidly disappearing as Vulcans learned the truth about it.

"The _Kir'Shara _is having an enormous impact," T'Pol replied.

Phlox looked at her carefully. "It's clearly had an impact on you," he answered. "You seem…more certain of yourself."

"Ironic," T'Pol answered flatly before explaining. "I've never felt less certain."

Phlox's smile grew wide across his face. "You're re-examining your core beliefs, T'Pol. The examination of faith is an affirmative act; it strengthens you in ways you can scarcely imagine."

…

Out in the desert, night fell without a cloak of suffocating darkness. While the light of Nevasa was gone, illuminating the far side of the planet, the stars overhead shone brilliantly in the clear sky, bringing an otherworldly glow to the night air, and the desert sands reflected it, casting the surface into a soft halo of starlight.

Out here, on the outskirts of his compound, V'Las had come in the middle of the night.

"You've failed!" the Vulcan hissed angrily.

Before him, a shadowy form stood in the darkness; the man was no taller than V'Las, but his shoulders and upper body were far broader, as if he came from a different world. "Am I to be blamed for your incompetence?" Talok retorted. He was far more belligerent than his Vulcan close-cousin, and the waves of fury pushed the ex-administrator back.

"Archer should have been killed!" V'Las argued, desperately seeking stable ground to stand upon. He could already feel the onslaught coming from Talok, and he cringed in imagined pain.

"You were the fool who brought the humans into this," Talok snarled. "And I must leave Vulcan. My position here is in danger."

V'Las recoiled from the words in panic. "What about me?" he exclaimed frantically, searching for any hope of salvation.

"You must remain behind," Talok answered. "Did you really think I would help you escape if you failed? No," he added, taking care of his own question. "You must stay here to absorb the investigations and accusations. I _can _trust you to do that, can't I?" he asked pointedly.

V'Las only groaned as he sank to his knees. "Why are you doing this to me?" he said, gasping in pain now. White bolts of lightning shot through his body, terrorizing every cell and nerve ending with exquisite pain and misery, and his breath came in short bursts as his lungs struggled to inflate against the flames.

Talok looked down on the Vulcan without anger or pity. "Perhaps one day you will understand that it can be no other way," he replied. "But it might be another lifetime."

V'Las watched as the other man turned and walked into the desert. The black form remained visible against the starlight for nearly a full minute before disappearing into the surface glow of the sand, but as V'Las' eyes clung to that point in space, the dwindling form of Talok slowly blended away.

V'Las crumpled over, falling to the ground with his head cushioned in his arms. The pain exploded now, ripping through his mind with a fury possessed, and he lost all track of time and space as he fell into the abyss.


	15. Appendix: The Name of the Sound

—**THE NAME OF THE SOUND****—**

"My father, I do not understand," the boy whispered softly as he shifted towards his elder. The words were muted, barely audible; even the smallest sounds could be magnified by the curving walls of the cavern. "Please explain it to me."

The elder was pleased with the question, for it showed the curiosity and humility that would one day grow into understanding. And it was the boy's first time experiencing the rites of _Tel-alep._ There would be much that the boy did not yet comprehend.

Beneath the floor of the Forge lay patchworks of sandstone caverns and tunnels, some intersecting, others isolated, some large, others small, some extending downward as far as the _gol'nevsu_ dared travel. No one knew for certain what lay in the dark recesses below; and the Vulcan was drawn to the heat and light of the surface.

In the middle of one unremarkable plain in the Forge lay a flat rock, faintly recognizable by the soft, red hue of its particulates. The rock was maybe two meters by one, not much larger than a person, and it was no thicker than a forearm. It was lost in anonymity, just one more piece of the wasteland, hidden from all who did not know of its presence.

Today, the boy had learned.

In the twilight of the night, while Nevasa rested its weary self beneath the horizon, the elder had come to the boy's sleeping chamber and awoken the lad. _This is an important day, _the elder had whispered, and the boy had arisen willingly, if confused. _Today, you walk the path of Tel-alep._

The living quarters were carved out of the ancient sandstone of the desert mountains. The air within was soft and cool, the tunnels lit by low candles even in the depths of the night. The boy inhaled, feeling the atmosphere as he followed the back of the elder, his senses detecting a hundred muffled scents.

The pair weaved their way through the airy paths, and soon emerged onto the desert floor.

It was not the first time the boy had been out in the Forge during the night; each time previous, it had felt _different_, somehow, as if the relative darkness and wafting temperatures unleashed a new spirit on the wasteland. But this time it was more so. The air felt charged, and the sand electric beneath his bare feet. The stale breeze was vibrant, and the stars shown with unexpected glory.

Before him, without pause, the elder set off across the desert. His stride was neither short nor long, but it was purposeful, his direction true and unerring. In the darkened world of the desert night, he looked neither left nor right, but pressed, not slowing, unto their destination.

The shorter boy began to trot to keep pace. The elder's presence blurred in the darkness, but his shockingly-white robes maintained an eerie presence before the boy's eyes, guiding him along the untrodden path in the sand. Soon, they were far away from the sanctuary; in the bright of day, the boy may have been able to find this place, but the darkness sealed them off.

In the middle of the sandy plain, they came across three other Vulcan children. The boy recognized all of them; two other boys and one girl, all his approximate age. They were acquaintances, friends of a sort, but tonight they only exchanged curt greetings. The elder whispered an injunction against speaking.

His task complete, the elder turned and vanished into the sand.

…

Even in their youth, the Vulcan mental disciplines were practiced, and the Vulcan children measured the passage of time with astounding accuracy.

They stood, gathered beneath the stars, for precisely one Vulcan hour. During this time, only a few words were spoken; hissed questions of _do you know what's going on_ were met with firm negatives, and mindful of the elder's parting injunction, they went silent again. Only the sounds on the stale breeze brought noise to their little gathering; their sensitive hearing detected little other than the ambient noises of the Forge. Wind rustling across rock and sand, the far-off cry of a _le-matya_, and the beating wings of a _shavokh _seeking a late meal…

The elder materialized from the desert, this time accompanied by another Vulcan. The boy recognized this one as well; a young man, perhaps ten years older than himself. Both were dressed in simple white tunics.

The children were told to remove their night garments, and—raised to have few qualms about nudity—they did so, handing the gear to the young man. The breeze felt no cooler against their bare skin, and the sandy grit went unnoticed; the Vulcan hide was toughened from birth by the brutal planet.

One by one, the elder stepped behind each child, and wrapped a blindfold around their head. The boy covertly tested his, but the blindfold was well-designed; he could see neither above nor below it, and its thickness cut off any hope of sight. As well, the fabric covered the upper portion of his ears, cutting off the sense of location provided by those organs.

The elder's firm hands turned the boy a quarter-turn to the right, and his hands were placed on the shoulders of the child before him. A moment later, he felt two hands fall on his shoulders as well. In this manner, they started moving forward, following the path of the one before them.

They came to a halt five minutes later. The boy heard the scuffling of movement, the slight grind of rock, and they began again, angling downwards along a ramp. Reaching the bottom, they turned left, then right; the boy could sense the close presence of stone walls on either side, but felt no warmth. The passageway was unlit.

There was another pause as they reached the end of the passage. The boy ached to yank the blindfold from his head, to see what was going on, but the disciplines were far too strong; he subdued the urge, trusting instead in the guidance of the elder. A few words were whispered, the creak of old hinges was heard, and the neophytes moved forward once again.

The guiding hands were removed, and the youths lined up, side by side. The boy could sense someone moving along behind them; and moments later, the blindfold fell away.

The boy's eyes opened wide in marvel.

The cavern was not large—maybe fifteen meters by ten. Along its central apex, the ceiling was only four or so meters high, and the roof and floor sloped inward. On either side, raised slightly on the upswept floor, ran a single table. A collection of Vulcans, of both genders and many ages, sat behind each table; between each one resided a solitary candle.

The head of the chamber was cloaked in darkness.

…

"My father, I do not understand," the boy whispered softly as he shifted towards his elder. The words were muted, barely audible; even the smallest sounds could be magnified by the curving walls of the cavern. "Please explain it to me."

The elder was pleased with the question, for it showed the curiosity and humility that would one day grow into understanding. And it was the boy's first time experiencing the rites of _Tel-alep._ There would be much that the boy did not yet comprehend.

Nonetheless, now was not the time for questions and answers; now was the time to experience the _ri-fainu_, to begin to understand it from within. "Later," the elder whispered.

The candles along the length of the cavern were extinguished, and a solitary light became visible in the apse. It was a dark violet; the flame had been treated to evoke the particular shade.

"It is not easy to walk the path of _Tel-alep_," a deep, feminine voice intoned. The sound came from behind the candle, but it rolled across the curved walls of the cavern, giving it the effect of being all around. "The _pach-te _must be purged from your essence. Chaos must be burned away. The elements of the Lower Mind—_Akraana _and _Alep-kir_; _Alep-tel _and _Dena-val_; _Kal-ap-ton _and _Ket-cheleb_; _Khosaar _and _N'yone_; _T'Priah _and _Tyr-al-tep;_ _Zhu-famu _and _Tevanu, _must be cleansed from within you."

The boy recognized the twelve archetypes representing various aspects of the Lower Mind.

"The inner pathway must be cleansed and renewed with deep, daily meditation and introspection. It must be fortified with self-control and renunciation."

A second candle was lit. This time, the flame was rose.

"We must find a place within that surpasses the faults, foibles and limitations of the Lower Mind. A place free from ego and emotion, which actively abhors worldly recognition and doctrinal arrogance."

The cavern fell silent as a third candle was lit.

"Do not rely on the multitude. Do not listen to those who flatter, or those who condemn; they build shadows upon shadows, never transcending the constraints of the _pach-te._ The entire edifice must be cleansed from within."

The fourth candle was lit. This one was a pale pink, not quite white.

"Though the light pierces the darkness, the darkness cannot itself give birth to the light. The light of reason comes from beyond the shadow realm, and it comes from within. The spark resides within every son and daughter of Vulcan, every child of the Higher Mind. The light of reason rescues us from the darkness outside."

Now, the four candles were brought together. As one, they were used to lit a fifth candle, residing in the center; it shone with brilliant, pure whiteness.

"Only then does the journey of _Tel-alep _end, and the journey of _ri-fainu _begin."

Now, in the light of the candles, the speaker stepped forward. She was clearly an elder, many years past any Vulcan in their commune; the boy thought he recognized her as one of the adepts, come down from the heights of Mt. Selaya.

Her skin was wizened, and her back stooped, but she moved with purpose. She moved forward, and stopped in front of the first neophyte. "Thy second name shall be…Tyvan."

She moved to the second, the young girl. "Thy second name shall be…Tel'an."

She stepped in front of the boy. He refused to fidget, despite his anticipation. "Thy second name shall be…Solak."

She moved to the last neophyte. "And thy second name shall be…Surak."


End file.
